


Ineffable Limerence

by BadTiming



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Coda, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal wants Will, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Series, Silence of the Lambs References, UST, post-season 3, sort of, will be resolved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4742927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadTiming/pseuds/BadTiming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Will Graham is dead.”</p>
<p>“Long live Will Graham” Hannibal retorts. It’s funny really, how both him and Abigail had the same reaction to their pretend death.</p>
<p>“Well, the news of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” Will says, his lips resting against the rim of the glass before he gulps down a long, burning swallow. He hisses softly as the alcohol gets to the inside of his torn cheek.</p>
<p>“Christ.” Hannibal swallows his own cultured sip more slowly. The codeine and alcohol make Will feel heavy and drowsy. He presses further into Hannibal’s embrace, his chin rubbing against the man’s bicep. </p>
<p>“How many people have you killed?” Will murmurs.</p>
<p>“How many people have you saved?” Hannibal responds, his voice soft and warm against Will’s temple. And it makes sense, somehow. They balance out the universe with their work. </p>
<p>Will isn’t sure when but they fall asleep at some point, wrapped around one another near the dying embers of the fire. There is comfort in the embrace of the night. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Only doing my best to add to the ever-growing collection of Post-Season 3 fics. Independent from my other fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My small contribution to the Post-Season 3 galore. I had to write this. No idea where it is headed. I'm just following the muse. Rated Explicit because there will be some rather explicit content in the next chapters. It was too long to post as a single novella, so it will have a multi-chapter arc. Will do my best to update in a timely fashion. As always, not beta-ed. I'm too all-over-the-place with my writing to commit to getting someone to correct this seriously for me. If anything offends your eyes grammatically, blame my first language not being English and point it out to me kindly :)
> 
> I love your feedback. It's like a bunch of puppies to Will Graham. 
> 
> Enjoy.

They hit the water at approximately 74 miles. Hannibal has managed to flip them, by then, forcing their entry in the crashing waves by the feet, rather than taking the hit on his back like Will clearly intended. Will doesn’t resist. He doesn’t even seem to know what’s happening. Hannibal can’t afford to faint or lose consciousness or they’ll both die. He knows Will probably intended it this way, and he can forgive him that, certainly. 

Hitting the water is still like a gigantic slap of cold, like a thousand knives prickle his skin. The salt in his wound is the worst. He’s lucky at least he won’t have to worry about infection or too much blood loss. Salt water has this wonderful property of slowing down blood flow from open wounds. He’s also very lucky that Dolarhyde’s bullet passed cleanly through. No organ damage, Hannibal can tell. Just a really good bottle of wine wasted on an unworthy killer. 

Everything is dark in the water. Hannibal can’t tell up from down, just that he needs to kick, and kick and kick to surface. Which way is up, he can’t tell. His eyes are closed or open, it’s hard to tell. They burn. They must be opened then. All that matters is Will, in his arms, limp and unconscious. The crash of the waves against the rocks is the most dangerous thing right now. If they get caught in the rolling surf they’ll get crushed on the sharp eroded rocks by the foot of the cliffs. And then they might as well have both died on the way down. So Hannibal kicks, using one of his arms to wail around until he feels the surface breaking. His other arm is wrapped around Will’s waist, holding him close by. Any other man with the kind of injuries he has sustained would be dead by now, if not at least unconscious, like Will. But then again, Hannibal has always been just a bit more than a man.

Hannibal gasps loudly when his head bobs over the surface like the popped cork of a champagne bottle. Air. Blissful air. Freezing as it might be. Everything hurts right now, anyways. But that kind of full body pain, Hannibal has had his fair share of and he can endure it. Will still looks unconscious. It’s like the air isn’t making its way in his half opened mouth.

“Will” Hannibal whispers harshly, still kicking at the water under him, trying to steer them away from the surf.

“Will!” Hannibal mutters again, through the clacking of his teeth. It’s so cold. Freezing. Adrenaline has yet to abate in his body and yet, blood loss and freezing ocean water together make him feel heavy and drowsy. If he faints now, they’ll die. So Hannibal braces himself and wraps Will’s arms around his neck in a way that he can use both his arms to swim them to the little rock formation further down the coast. It’s about five hundred feet to safety. Relative as it might be. From there, Hannibal knows he’ll have to carry Will or at least help him walk all the way up the stairs that have been carved up the cliff’s side. Hannibal has known about this cliff from the moment he bought the house under a false name what is seems was ages ago. Ten years, he’s owned this place. And it has never meant anything more than a good escape route. Until now. Now, it means the place of his and Will’s rebirth.

Twenty feet left. Hannibal groans in pain. The wound in his side might be shallow, but it hurts. The advantage of wearing sweaters one size too big because of the terrible food at the BSHCI is that people overestimate your size. Which is why Dolarhyde’s bullet went straight through, about an inch in Hannibal’s flesh. Nothing to write home about, unless of course you’ve had to fight to the death with a great big Dragon and fallen off a 150 feet cliff into the rolling waves of the Atlantic. Will is like dead weight on his back, the blood on his face cold from their time in the water. Hannibal’s fingers finally grasp the length of rope he leaves dangling from the tiny man-made pier he’s ensured would always be there if he ever needed it. He pulls himself up on the ladder which has half rotted away. Hannibal thinks that he’ll need to replace it if the current and erosion keep getting at it like that. Will’s arms slip from his neck and he has just an instant to spin around and grab Will by the armpits before the man is dragged under by a particularly unforgiving wave. That’s when Hannibal realizes that Will isn’t breathing anymore.

Will Graham is dead.

Hannibal drags them both on the flat bedrock. It’s high enough to clear most of the waves, but the more vicious ones do leave foam and salt on it, making the surface slippery. 

“Will” Hannibal mutters. The surgeon in him takes over. He puts Will Graham on his back and bends down to check for a pulse. Maybe he’s just half drowned. As long as his heart is still beating.

No pulse. No breath. Will’s lips are cold when Hannibal presses his to them and blows air into the dead man’s mouth. The air fizzles and bubbles straight out of Will’s torn cheek and Hannibal curses, something he rarely does. He presses a cold, clammy palm to the wound to close it and tries again. 

Hannibal, in an emergency, is nothing if not efficient. That’s what made him a great surgeon, the fact that he cares so little about the outcome and so much about doing things perfectly. Two breaths in Will’s mouth and then, thirty chest compressions. Hannibal is certain Will will have bruised ribs after, but better bruised ribs than brain damage. Two breaths, thirty compressions. Two breaths, thirty compressions.

One minute in, Hannibal starts panicking. It’s a foreign feeling really. He never panics. Not since Mischa. He also feels immensely tired, which is a bizarre combination with the elevated pulse and shallow breaths of panic. Adrenaline downs are the worst. He needs sugar and water. Now. They both need it. If only Will Graham would just fucking breathe.

“Šunsnukis” Hannibal mutters, pressing down on Will Graham’s chest. He bends down to blow air in his mouth some more when suddenly, Will Graham starts coughing, salt water and blood mingled. Hannibal helps him to his side so the water can come out more freely.

“Will, Will, Will, Will” Hannibal whispers it like a litany. Will’s eyes are still closed and he rolls back, clutching his side, coughing and coughing, tears rolling down his cheeks from how hard his body rocks. 

“Of course you’d save my life” he croaks when he finally can speak. “You motherfucker.” Will mutters, opening his eyes to the starry night. There is little light pollution where they are and the stars are bright and clear. 

“You were dead.”

“That was the plan.” Will grunts, his words kind of gurgled by the tear in his cheek, trying to lift himself to a sitting position so he can better look at Hannibal.

“You were dead.” Hannibal repeats, as if Will hadn’t heard the first time.

“And you apparently can’t fucking die.” Will mumbles. Every move of his lips stretches his cheek painfully. Adrenaline has long left the building in his case and so there is nothing to numb out the pain in his face or in his pectoral muscle which Dolarhyde got pretty damn good with his atrocious little blade.

“Will. We’re alive.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Will chuckles. It’s a mad kind of chuckle, not a happy one, but not unhappy either. He glances at Hannibal. Who for all intent and purposes looks pretty damn good for someone who just survived a deadly encounter with a vicious killer, a long fall from a cliff and an absolutely not leisurely swim in the Atlantic fucking ocean.

“We need to stitch you up.” Hannibal mutters, his hand clawing on the rock to grab Will’s fingers. Will pulls his hand away and glances at the bullet wound on Hannibal’s side. The water has made their clothes dark and soggy and it’s hard to tell what is blood and what isn’t.

“We need to stitch you up too.” Will grunts, pulling with trembling fingers at the fabric stuck to Hannibal’s side to check out his wound. He notices then that it isn’t just his fingers trembling. It’s his entire body which is shaken by bone shattering trembles. It’s so god damned cold.

“Flesh wound. It’ll need stitching up, but your injuries are more serious, for now.” Hannibal explains.

“Aren’t they always.” Will mumbles as Hannibal tries to help him to his feet.

“‘M afraid you’ll have to carry me. Again.” Will sighs before his knees give out and he falls on Hannibal. 

***

When Will regains consciousness, he’s in a dimly lit room in what looks like a fisherman’s shack. He can hear the surf outside, rolling. It’s still night, that much he can tell. Though he doesn’t know which night. Perhaps days have gone by since he was on that little pier by the sea with Hannibal. Perhaps weeks. Perhaps he’s dead. Who knows. His face throbs. And is covered with a bandage. His skin is dry, at least as dry as can be. His hair is a tangled mess but that’s always the case. All these assessment, Will makes with his left hand, his right one entangled in what looks like a brace. Right. Dolarhyde stabbed him in the pectoral with his little blade. 

Hannibal is nowhere to be seen. Will drags himself up and out from the covers. He’s wearing just a pair of boxers. Not his own, he notices. They fit him, though. As if they’ve been purchased with him in mind. Wouldn’t exactly surprise him.

We’re alive. Alive. 

That wasn’t part of the plan. Will was willing to die, tonight. As long as he died with Hannibal. As long as they could both go to rest together and let the livings live on. Will thinks of Molly. Of Willy. Of Alana. Of Jack. Of Margot. Even of Bedelia. For her sake, Will hopes she’s left town the moment she heard through the official channels that Hannibal was free. But then again, with the scene they left up there on the cliff, Jack and his team will have no choice but to assume they died. 

Hannibal. 

Will steps out of the tiny bedroom gingerly. It opens up into the main room, which is occupied by a tiny yet functional and unsurprisingly pristine kitchen, a tiny and equally pristine dining room and a small living room which is much less pristine, covered in bandages, bloody rags and surgical tools. Will frowns. Certainly, this isn’t all his. The blood, he means. He sees Hannibal, at last, seated on the floor with a pan and surgical tools, trying to stitch his own side, which proves to be a bit more than any human - or Hannibal himself - can do.

“I can’t reach the back.” Hannibal mutters, acknowledging Will’s presence without even looking at him. Will steps over Hannibal’s stretched out legs, noticing for the first time the fire in the hearth which is a blessing against his skin. Hannibal is wearing nothing but boxers and his own blood, certainly a bit of Will’s and much of Dolarhyde’s. It’s strange to see him like this, devoid of his usual costumes and masks.

“Lemme help.” Will breathes out, kneeling by Hannibal’s side to check out the damage.

“It’s a flesh wound.” Will mutters. Every move of his face throbs.

“Yes.”

“You were faking, on the floor” Will says, gazing up at Hannibal’s half-lidded eyes. He looks glorious in the warm glow of the flames.

“It does hurt.” Hannibal corrects. 

“I thought he’d perhaps killed you, at first.”

“No one can kill me.” But you, is left unsaid.

“Poor marksman?” Will mumbles. He’s fumbling with his left hand, trying to grab the thread and needle in the little metal pan by Hannibal’s side, but he’s very much a right-handed man.

“Big sweater.” Hannibal retorts with a tiny pull at the corner of his lips.

“Need to take it off.” Will says, trying to keeps his lips as unmoving as possible, gesturing with his chin at the brace around his right arm. “Can’t stitch you up left-handed.”

“Right. Just… Don’t make sudden moves.” Hannibal instructs. “Wouldn’t want to reopen your wound.”

“Ha, ha.” Will mutters as Hannibal’s deft fingers drag the cotton fabric of the brace off his bare shoulder. Their skin brush against one another and it’s like electricity, like fire, like a hail storm, like God himself is in the room. Will catches his breath and tries to ignore how much he wants to touch some more of that smooth, olive skin.

Stitching up Hannibal’s side proves easier than Will would have thought. The wound really is, quite superficial. And for all the blood Hannibal has lost, he’s still fucking vigorous. His stomach muscles quiver under Will’s hand as Will helps him turn to his side so he can reach the back. The bullet wound has already been cleaned and it’s tinged a darkish orange by the iodine.

“I’ve stitched myself before. Not very good at it.” Will explains before getting down to business. It’s not like Hannibal or him aren’t used to scars. They both have their fair share. It takes about four stitches to get the wound closed properly. It will look ridiculous when it heals. Looking up the expanse of Hannibal’s back, Will sees the burn for the first time.

“Mason.” He mumbles. It’s a terrifying burn, really. It has healed. The hospital personnel that took care of the Ripper when he was processed into the care of the FBI and Baltimore police force made sure he was in no state to sue them for poorly handling him or his injuries. It has healed, yes, as well as could be expected. There are still ridges of a pattern, now indiscernible. The skin there is whiter and pinker than the skin around it. It must pull and hurt sometimes.

“Hurt?” Will asks, rolling him back so he’s sitting, his back against the foot of the sofa. Will wonders for a second why Hannibal didn’t sit on the plushy surface. Would be much more comfortable. He then thinks that perhaps Hannibal didn’t want to bleed all over the upholstery. And then realizes that Hannibal is just cold and the floor is closer to the hearth and its warm inviting flames. 

“Sometimes. Nothing unbearable.” Hannibal retorts, glancing at Will’s stomach, where Will now cradles his right arm which burns and pulls from the pectoral. His hand reflectively drags along the thin white line on his stomach. He healed better than Hannibal. He’s lucky like that, that he scars well. 

“Do you ever hurt, anymore?” Hannibal asks, his eyes dragging from Will’s stomach to his nipples, which are tight little buds regardless of how warm it is near the fire, and then across his neck and chin and his lips. His lips. and then his eyes. Will swallows loudly. That gaze is like liquid fire on his skin.

“Surgical.” He slurs. It’s really hard to speak properly with half his cheek torn open and now stitched back tightly.

“I did my best.” Hannibal retorts with a half smile. 

“You could have also not gutted me.” Will mutters as Hannibal helps him back into his brace and he finally turns, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Hannibal, warming himself. There’s silence then, for a while, broken only by the popping wood in the fireplace and the crash of the waves outside. For the life of him, Will could’t tell exactly where the hell they are. 

“It was punishment.” Hannibal finally retorts, turning his head to the side to look at Will’s profile, haloed by the fire. He hopes the cut on his cheek will heal well. He’s such a striking, beautiful man. Would be a shame for that ham-fisted Dragon’s cut to leave a mark. It will, for sure, but Hannibal will see to it that it’s a delicate lace on Will’s skin rather than a butcher’s job.

“Then for all children’s sake, please, never become a father.” Will grumbles, pushing his head in the warm angle between Hannibal’s collarbone and his jaw. 

Hannibal ponders then if he might have given Will too much codeine or if Will has forgotten about Abigail. Perhaps his memories have been affected by the roughly four minutes he spent being, for all intent and purposes, dead.

“Abigal was never ours.” Will mumbles, his lips pressed against Hannibal’s collarbone. “I get it now. She wasn’t ours to take.”

“Mmhmm.” Hannibal nods imperceptibly.

“Anything to drink?” Will asks, later. Time drags by like molasses. 

“Water.”

“Stronger than that.” Will retorts, lifting his chin from Hannibal’s shoulder. They’re both trembling, softly. Hypothermia, maybe. Or blood loss. 

“I gave you antibiotics and codeine. I wouldn’t recommend alcohol.”

“Well you are a piss-poor doctor anyways, so I will just ignore your recommendations.” Wills pulls himself up and brushes his fingers in Hannibal’s hair as he steps over his legs to go hunt for something to drink in the kitchen. Obviously, Hannibal’s drinking cabinet is as well-stocked here as anywhere else, if only smaller in terms of selection. 

“Do all your getaway houses have six different kinds of whiskeys or is this one special for me?” Will asks, two tumblers at the end of his left hand, a bottle of Bunnahabhain 25 year old single malt scotch pressed against his chest between his brace and his stomach. The bottle is worth well over two hundred dollars and Will almost wants to smile.

“All my getaway houses have things for you in them. They’re your houses too.” Hannibal explains as Will drops a thick cashmere blanket on his knees and crawls back to his spot next to Hannibal. Hannibal wraps them under the blanket and pulls gently at Will until he’s leaning against Hannibal uninjured side. 

Will grabs the bottle’s neck and pulls the cork out with his teeth for lack of use of his right hand before pouring them each a generous portion. 

Will clicks his glass against Hannibal’s.

“Will Graham is dead.”

“Long live Will Graham” Hannibal retorts. It’s funny really, how both him and Abigail had the same reaction to their pretend death.

“Well, the news of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” Will says, his lips resting against the lid of the glass before he gulps down a long, burning swallow. He hisses softly as the alcohol gets to the inside of his torn cheek.

“Christ.” Hannibal swallows his own cultured sip more slowly. The codeine and alcohol make Will feel heavy and drowsy. He presses further into Hannibal’s embrace, his chin rubbing against the man’s bicep. 

“How many people have you killed?” Will murmurs.

“How many people have you saved?” Hannibal responds, his voice soft and warm against Will’s temple. And it makes sense, somehow. They balance out the universe with their work. 

Will isn’t sure when but they fall asleep at some point, wrapped around one another near the dying embers of the fire. There is comfort in the embrace of the night. 

***

They stay at the little fisherman’s cabin for four days, time enough for both of them to be legally declared missing, assumed dead. Time enough to recover from their wounds, somehow. Hannibal is up and running much faster than Will, which is surprising considering he was hit near the hip and it should hinder his movements.

“If I don’t get moving, it will scar stiff.” Hannibal explains to him while doing crunches on the living room floor. Will just stares blankly from his perch on the sofa, cradling their second bottle of whiskey to his chest. He’s foregone glasses and tumblers by then and sips straight from the bottle. Hannibal has stopped nagging him about it too, the second day in. Hannibal’s cooked them thankfully people-free meals. Lots of meat and vegetables, all fresh. Will wonders how he gets all of it without ever leaving Will’s sight except when Will is sleeping. He gets his answer on the fourht day when there’s a soft knock at the door. 

Chiyoh. Of course.

“I have brought the boat.” She says to Hannibal, glancing at the sofa to Will. She smiles, politely, no warmth in her gaze, at him. Will gives her a semblance of a wave back with his now brace-free right hand. 

His chest still hurts, his muscle pulled taunt and bunched where the knife cut him, but he can move his arm a little. Not enough to jerk off, which is a shame. Will tried to do it in the shower the third morning, all pent-up heat in his groin, but it just wasn’t the same with his left hand, and his right pectoral just isn’t in any shape to partake in this seemingly innocent activity. But the need is there, rolling under his skin. 

“Where are you headed?” Chiyoh asks as Hannibal serves her some sort of omelet. She’s divested herself of her hunting jacket and is impeccably dressed, as always. She’s a beautiful thing to watch. She brings the food gingerly to her mouth and glances up at Hannibal.

“You have bought the meat.” He reminds her. She nods and swallows the first bite, humming pleasantly. Will drags himself to the counter to sit with her and eat his food. He looks like a mess. He’s managed to wash his hair, but not very well and it sticks in all different directions on his skull. Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind, but Chiyoh gives him an amused look. There is warmth, at last, in those eyes.

“You need a haircut.” She states, plainly before sipping at her water thoughtfully. 

“I need a lot of things.” Will replies. His speech is less hindered now that the scar has started to heel inside his cheek. The outside is still terrible to look at, no matter how much tea tree oil Hannibal insists on rubbing gently on it. It will take much longer to heal too. 

“You are both all over the news. You should stay clear of the coasts for at least two weeks.”

“What do the news say?” Hannibal asks, seating himself with them to eat his own omelet. As always, the food is delicious. Will almost moans around his first mouthful.

There’s butter and shiitakes and truffles in there. And pancetta, Will thinks. It’s an orgy of fine herbs, mushrooms and salty meat. 

“Jack Crawford did a press-conference yesterday. He said you are both assumed dead. They found sufficient blood evidence to know you both were badly injured during your fight with the Dragon. They evaluated that you both lost too much blood to have survived and so you are assumed dead. They’re still looking for you, though. I think Mr Crawford knows better than to trust a staged scene…” Chiyoh explains.

“Staged?” Will asks.

“Plasma.” Chiyoh responds, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes.

“How much blood exactly are we talking about?” Will asks.

“Two to three litres each.” Hannibal responds. The plasma trick is an old but efficient one. It won’t last, though. If Zeller and Price are as thorough as they always are, they’ll soon determine that there is too much plasma to the red cell count drying on the rocks at the top of those cliffs for all of it to have come from Will or Hannibal.

“They’ll know.” Will retorts, biting almost wistfully into his next bite.

“Yes, but we’ll be long gone by then.” Will glances up at Hannibal and nods.

“Where are we headed?” He asks, almost sulking. Chiyoh did never get an answer to her question earlier.

“Better if neither of you know.” Hannibal responds.

“Are you coming with us, Chiyoh? Want to join our little family?” Will asks, cocking an eyebrow at her.

“No.” Her voice is no more than a whisper. “The extent of my help ends here and now. You’ll know where to find me, should you require further assistance.” She finishes her plate silently and stands, ready to leave. Will grabs her hand then, and brings it to his lips, placing a careful kiss on it, almost reverent.

“Thank you.” He says. She refuses to meet his eyes and walks around the counter to share a bizarre embrace with Hannibal. He kisses the top of her head and murmurs some sweet nothings in her ear. Will would like to say it leaves him indifferent, but he finds himself growing more and more possessive of Hannibal as days pass. It’s a weird kind of possession too. He doesn’t want Hannibal sexually, not really, not yet. At least he doesn’t think so. It’s hard to shed his identity as a straight man. He’s always been just that, straight as an arrow. But there’s something magnetic, animalistic between him and Hannibal. And he fears it’s like a dam about to burst. He glances away as Chiyoh presses her own lips to Hannibal’s cheek. It’s sisterly, at best. But it makes something dark coil in Will’s stomach. If Hannibal notices, he doesn’t mention it as he helps Chiyoh in her coat and walks her out of their little home.

Theirs.

Will eats the rest of his meal quietly and doesn’t look back up when Hannibal rejoins him at the table.

They clear their plates and Will washes the dishes whilst Hannibal packs their belongings. Will adds the whiskey bottles as a last thought before Hannibal straps the elegant leather cases closed.

“Where are we going, Hannibal?” Will asks, grabbing Hannibal’s forearm as Hannibal slips next to him out of the bedroom.

“South.” 

“How far south?”

“The Keys, first. To rest for a while and prepare. And then further south.”

Will nods. That seems like a plan. A reasonable one. Sunshine seems like a great idea about now. Will has had his fair share of cold and wind and desolation.

He has a fleeting thought about Molly then. How she must be grieving for him with Willy. Or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she feels freed. He rubs unconsciously at the ring on his left hand. Hannibal hasn’t yet demanded he remove it. But Will knows it will come.

Hannibal glances at his hand when Will wraps himself in the elegant wind breaker Hannibal provided him with. It’s warm and there’s leather on it and it’s doubled with some sort of cashmere blend. Will loves it, but he won’t tell Hannibal. 

“Not now.” Will mutters. He knows that Hannibal is annoyed by the ring.

“When?” Hannibal asks. It isn’t as much a question as a demand. But Will knows better, now. He is as much in control of this game as Hannibal.

“When I fucking want. You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Hannibal.” At least not yet, Will thinks.

“You know I dislike it when you swear.”

“Well fucking deal with it.” Will hisses back, a hint of a smile on his lips. Hannibal’s eyes cloud in fury and the beast is there, somehow, ready to bite.

Will is pressed up against the closed bedroom door before he has a chance to call truce. There’s an arm against his throat, pressing just enough to remind him that he could very well die at the hands of Hannibal and there wouldn’t be a thing he could do about it. And hips, hips grinding into his, almost to the point of pain.

“Why do you insist on provoking me?”

“Because I can.” Will replies, lazily biting his bottom lip. He’s noticed that it makes Hannibal twitch, every single time he does it. 

“And because I know you won’t kill me.” Will murmurs, his words ending on a groan when Hannibal slips a knee between his thighs. 

“I could hurt you, though.” Hannibal hisses. Will would be afraid, if only he couldn’t feel the weight of Hannibal’s erection pressed against his hip. 

“You already have. You’ve broken me beyond repair. I’m not a fucking teacup, Hannibal. I’ve already made my choices. Don’t make me regret them.” Will replies, exhaling warm breath against the mouth too close to his. He knows that Hannibal wants him. Yearns for him. He isn’t certain yet that he aches back for Hannibal in quite the same ways. 

There is a different between understanding and empathy. While he can empathize with Hannibal, he’s not certain he understands him. Not certain he even likes the man. 

But he loves him. That’s for sure. Every fibre of his being. Loving someone you’re not certain you like certainly is inconvenient. Confusing. 

Can’t live with him, can’t live without him… Bedelia’s words ring truer than ever in his mind. His mind which was made the moment he heard the dragon had attacked Molly and Willy. There was no going back from there. They would die together. 

Only they didn’t.

And that’s inconvenient too. And that is perhaps why Will takes it out on Hannibal, testing his patience, which is fraying at the edges. Will rocks his hips forward, pressing against Hannibal’s erection, causing a grunt to escape the well manicured facade that is Hannibal Lecter.

“You’re practically begging for it, aren’t you.” He murmurs, his lips a breath away from Hannibal’s. There’s darkness clouding Will Graham in that instant. Naked provocation and a boiling fire. “Tell me, Hannibal, in your fantasies, am I fucking you, or you’re fucking me? Do I suck you off and tell you how good you taste? How I want you to devour me?” The words drip with acid and they’re meant to sting. Hannibal has made his stance quite clear, he’s just not certain where exactly Will stands. Will isn’t quite certain himself, but damn him if he’ll let Hannibal see it. 

Will slips out of Hannibal’s hold before the man can answer and he steps out of the room, storming onto the porch. They don’t speak for the rest of the day as they pack the boat. Will isn’t even surprised that it’s the sailboat he left back in Italy, the one he painfully repaired and sailed solo across the Atlantic.

Wendigo. That’s how he named the boat. 

At least, he knows it’s a good boat. Solid. Its motor can take them out of the bay and there is plenty of supplies and fuel to keep them for as long as they might need, would the winds prove unfavourable. The cabin is small, though, sheltered as it might be from the elements. It has a tiny shower stall and a tiny bathroom off one end and a double bed on the other. A tiny kitchen too, which Hannibal has managed to stock full of food, with Chiyoh’s help. Apparently, even on the run, Hannibal cannot forgo his sirloin steak and his Bâtard-Montrachet.

Unsurprisingly, Hannibal is almost as adept a sailor as Will. Will still is in command, because it’s his fucking boat, after all. How Chiyoh got it back from Italy and all the way to Wherever, Delaware - which is where Will thinks they might be, he has no clue. Doesn’t really care either. Hannibal could very well be the Devil or a magician and it wouldn’t surprise him at this point. Because now he knows the soft underbelly of the beast. He knows where to hit if he wants to hurt.

And there’s peace and quiet that comes with that knowledge.

They don’t speak much, the first few days, but to share commands, ask the other to loosen a rope or tighten a sail. They’re lucky too, the bad times lurking near the coasts have stayed there and, further out at sea, the skies are clear and the wind is strong. They have a bit over 1000 nautical miles to cover till they hit Key West - that’s if they don’t stop before, somewhere more secluded perhaps. That’s about 6 to 7 days of sailing if the wind keeps up like this and they take turns sleeping. 10 days at best if they stop to rest. Their good luck lasts them till just past the point that Will estimates being Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina. How à propos, really… The weather sours there. Their moods too. Hannibal is distant, very much the professional, as if they were coworkers rather than a lot more than friends. He even sleeps on deck, Will hasn’t really figured out where, as if he’s refusing to be in the presence of Will, as if sharing space with him would poison him. The only time he touches Will is to change his bandages and rub tea tree oil on his cheek, something he does efficiently, professionally, almost mechanically. 

Will, on his end, is about to crawl out of his skin. The wound on his chest has reached a bizarre healing point where it itches, itches like mad. Or perhaps it’s the spiders crawling in his mind, under his skin. He doesn’t see Abigail anymore, or Hobbs. The stag he hasn’t seen since it died on Hannibal’s kitchen floor, forever ago. And then there’s the pent up need for friction, for human touch. Will hasn’t felt so needy and horny since high school. He hates himself a little bit for it, because he can’t even begin to define what it is exactly he’s yearning for. He tries jerking off in the shower every morning when he wakes up at the crack of dawn, but he can’t seem to do anything with his left hand. It feels like chasing a dream and it’s exhausting and nauseating and it makes him angry and twitchy. 

His cheek is tender to the touch, the wound closing up nicely, leaving behind a rather ugly scar, but a clean, infection-free one. In time, it’ll heal to a thin white, pinkish line, like the one on his stomach. 

When the wind suddenly takes up and the rain comes down splattering in fat, heavy drops that soak the sails, Will thinks that perhaps they might die after all. The skies have turned a deep, dark, sickening grey, almost purple like a fresh bruise. It’s the middle of the afternoon but it might as well be pitch black at night. Adrenaline pumps through his veins as both him and Hannibal weather the storm, fighting against the terrible waves that want to pull their sail boat under. In the end, they win, but it’s a close fight. Will’s managed to cut his hand on one of the ropes and he has pulled a few stitches from his chest wound pulling at the sails and fighting against the helm. They find refuge in shallower waters off Hatteras Island. It’s mostly deserted so there is no risk of them being seen from the coast. And even if they were. They’d be gone by the time someone would think to come and look.

Will is trying to bandage his hand, now that the anchor has been dropped. Hannibal is nowhere to be seen until Will drops the stupid tape on the floor of the cabin and it rolls off and away from him. Will swears loudly and reaches for his ever present bottle of whiskey. He’s been drinking a lot since they’ve left Delaware. Too much, by Hannibal’s standards. 

There’s a hand, suddenly, at his elbow, steadying his hold on the bottle’s slippery neck. Will gazes up. Hannibal is there, packed into dry clothes, a large fisherman’s creamy sweater concealing his chest and arms. 

“Let me help” Hannibal all but murmurs, kneeling by Will’s knees to retrieve the tape. Hannibal looks critically at Will’s poorly bandaged left hand and then at the ring, which is still there, on his finger. The bandage seems to offend him more than the ring, at the moment. Which is good. He gently unwraps the hand and stares at the cut deep within Will’s palm. Will has a weird sense of déjà vu. It’s like they’re back in Hannibal’s dining room next to Randall Tier’s body, and Hannibal is bandaging his knuckles.

“Why me?” Will asks, gently, as Hannibal rewraps his hand, carefully, almost with reverence.

“I’m not sure I have the right answers to your questions.” Hannibal responds, gazing up into Will’s face. He finds it closed off, his lashes a curtain against the violent blue of his eyes. Hannibal has noticed in the last few days that his eyes take the same colour as the sea, whatever that colour might be. It’s entrancing, fascinating. Makes Hannibal all the more hungry for any contact at all. But he’s left Will his time to mourn. Will give him as much time as he needs. One needs to mourn one’s own death if only then to celebrate one’s rebirth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-betaed, as always. I want to thank you all for your lovely, LOVELY comments. They make me smile every single time. Hope you enjoy this. 
> 
> The Mondrian South Beach Hotel is a real place. I have never been, nor have I been to the other places I describe here, so I rely heavily on research and pictures and all from the web. 
> 
> Hopefully, you can suspend your disbelief a tiny-teeny bit for me :)

It’s there between them, boiling slowly, reaching a simmering point. After the storm, Hannibal comes back to sleep in the tiny, absurdly narrow bed. Narrow because they both refuse to invade each other’s space. The temperature has gone up too, now that the winds have cleared. The next few days, it becomes sweltering in the cabin as they near Georgia and then, further down, Florida. Their food supply is slowly dwindling down. So is there fuel supply. They’ve had to rely on the motor more and more. By the time they reach Boca Raton, the heat has become unbearable. Gone are their fishermen sweaters. Most days, Will spends shirtless, because he simply cannot stand the rub of the fabric on his chest wound which he now leaves to breathe, bandage-less. He sees how Hannibal looks at him, surreptitiously, from the corner of his eye. Sometimes it’s a full-on stare. There’s hunger in there. There’s also something else that disturbs Will. Longing. A tender longing. And Will longs too. But hell if he’ll cave in first. It’s like they’re both standing on the knife’s edge, waiting to see who’ll cut himself first. 

Will’s hand is heavily bandaged still and he’s managed to fashion himself a sort of cast to protect the wound whilst allowing him to still work the ropes and sails and tourniquets he needs to work in order for their ship to sail. By the time they near Miami, the winds die down and they rely on the motor, but it’s not nearly enough. A sailboat’s motor is good enough to drag oneself out of a jam or a bay or a dock or a marina. Certainly not to sail the 200 or so nautical miles they still have left between here and Key West. So they decide to stop. Miami’s port is big enough that their tiny little sail boat won’t make much of a splash. From somewhere deep in the confines of the boat, Hannibal produces the proper paperwork to dock. He sorts through it. He’s got papers to dock in every major country from here all the way down to Argentina. And passports. Six of them. Three for Will, three for himself. Canadian, British and American citizenships. As if they’d need all three...

“How long had you been planning this?” Will asks, gazing over Hannibal’s shoulder on the folded table they’ve been using to eat in the cabin. They have a feeble ventilator throwing about the room the same stale air it has for the past two days. It’s so godamned hot, Will wants to crawl out of his clothes and jump naked in the water. He considers it. They’ll dock in Miami tomorrow morning. Right now, they’re anchored just off of South Beach, far enough that they won’t be noticed, close enough that their anchor immobilizes them. 

Will decides he might as well go for a swim. Hannibal is choosing to be cryptic and ignoring his questions anyways. The worst of it all is they work well together. They’re in sync, as if dancing to the same beat. In all but in conversation, which dried up after the storm. 

“I’ve been planning this from the day I met you.” Hannibal mutters to Will’s retreating back, watching with fire in his eyes as Will’s shirt is discarded on the ladder up to the deck. 

Will doesn’t hear him and keeps going, dropping his clothes casually along like one would a road of rose petals. Hannibal follows, as one does. The sun has just set and the sky is still alight with hues of red and blue and pink. And against it all, Will Graham, naked and gorgeous. Will doesn’t seem to notice if Hannibal is watching and he just stretches his arms above his head, cracking the vertebra in his neck gleefully before diving in.

Hannibal just stares, hungry eyes taking in the dips in Will’s back, right above his ass. It’s a nice ass too. With tiny dimples. The ass of a man who works out. There’s a suntan mark there too, where Will’s chest has been exposed to the sunshine and his ass hasn’t. Hannibal wants to pass his tongue on it to see if suntanned skin tastes the same as skin that has been kept a creamy white.

Will jumps in. And it’s a different kind of fall, by all means. For once, it’s a lot warmer, the fall shorter. And it’s bliss, when he hits the water, his sweaty burning skin refreshed immediately. The water is the perfect temperature, warmed on the surface by the sun all day long, cool just a little under. Hannibal slips back into the cabin. He feels like he’s interrupted something private, like he’s walked in on Will doing something no one else was meant to see. 

Will stays in the water for ten minutes at best, just a refreshing sloshing about. When he steps back in the cabin, he’s wearing just his shorts, which are sticking to him in all the wrong places. Hannibal’s attention drifts away from the paperwork he’s sorting when he finally notices Will’s left hand. Above the bandage which Will is now changing, the ring is gone. Will notices his gaze and glances at Hannibal, serious.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Will mutters. Hannibal swallows down whatever it is he was going to say. It feels like a tiny victory to him, that Will dropped the ring to the bottom of the ocean and left it there.

Will palms the ring, softly. He’s okay with taking it off. He has been okay with it for a while now. He’s a different man. He’s not Will Graham anymore, at least not the Will Graham Molly married two and a half years ago. That ring doesn’t belong to him anymore, but parting with it seems too hard. So he keeps the ring and finds an old piece of thin cotton rope to lace it around his neck, close to his heart and away from Hannibal’s prying eyes. 

That night, when Will crawls on the bed, Hannibal pulls him close, nosing the space beneath Will’s ear. It’s affectionate, perhaps sexual to a certain extent. Will does his best to convince himself that the frisson that goes through him isn’t his libido going wild for the man spooning with him. It’s… happiness? The comfort that comes with human contact? 

Mostly, Will tries to convince himself that, however hot it might be in their tiny abode, Hannibal’s warmth is still welcomed, wanted. Not much convincing required there. Will melts into the touch.

*** 

When Will finally reads the names on the passports he’s taken from the tiny folding table, he laughs. Loudly.

“Seriously? That’s the best you could come up with?” Will Graham laughing is a thing of beauty. And it’s a full belly laugh.

“Morton? You think you look at ALL like a Morton?” Hannibal frowns, displeased. “Morton Miller. Dr. Morton Miller.”

Will laughs so hard he’s got tiny tears at the corner of his eyes. It hurts in his cheek and yet he cannot stop laughing. Hannibal eventually joins in.

“Not my best, perhaps. You’ll have to forgive me but I had less than a day to plan those.”

“My name is JOHN SMITH, for God’s sake, Hannibal! JOHN SMITH.” Hannibal cannot help himself this time and he just gets to his feet before he can stop himself. He crowds a still laughing Will against the tiny partition that separates the shower stall from the rest of the cabin. Will stops laughing then, his face serious as he watches Hannibal watching him.

“I like you like this.” Hannibal says, his gaze fixed on the tiny piece of rope around Will’s neck. He’s figured it out by now, that Will’s ring isn’t at the bottom of the ocean at all, but rather right there, around his neck, close to his heart. It angers him. Makes him feel cheated. But he’s promised himself he’ll give Will as much time as he needs. Doesn’t mean he won’t take anything in return for his patience. 

“Like what.” Will retorts, tilting Hannibal’s chin up so their eyes collide. It’s like a slap in the face, like a full-bodied shudder when the deep sea blue of Will’s eyes catches the dark earthy brown of Hannibal’s. 

“Happy.”

Will chuckles softly. 

“You haven’t done a whole lot to make me happy in our time.” He says. It’s meant to sting, just a bit. A poke. Because really, Hannibal’s had it coming. What Will doesn’t expect is to see hurt in Hannibal’s eyes. Actual hurt. Something he’s only seen once before, that time when he told Hannibal he did not want to see him again, right before Hannibal turned himself in.

“I can’t change the past.” Hannibal murmurs. “I don’t think I realized what I wanted out of you until I’d nearly broken you beyond repair.”

“And now what? You want us to go off into the sunset murdering our way across South America? Lick each other’s wounds clean? John Smith and Morton Miller, partners in crime.” Will asks, genuinely curious, a hint of amusement in there, mostly because of the names. He refuses to use the title Freddie Lounds coined for them, “murder husbands”. It’s ridiculous and absurd and way too close to the truth. Because his destiny is entwined with this man’s, in more ways than is good for him. 

His lips are an inch away from Hannibal’s who passes a lazy tongue on his, his gaze sliding from Will’s too-blue eyes to his mouth. Parted lips. 

“You liked it.” Hannibal hisses. There’s anger there, resentment.

“Yes.” Will all but growls. “Yes, I liked killing that fucker. I liked it because you were there, you were as covered in his blood as I was.” Hannibal gulps and the next second, he’s kissing Will. Not a shy kiss either. Nothing tentative about it. It’s like the dam has ruptured. Will smells of sea water and of that atrocious aftershave. He insists on wearing it, as if to spite Hannibal personally. Hannibal debates throwing it overboard. Hannibal frankly doesn’t even know how Will procured a bottle. They haven’t stopped at shore much on their way down. Right now all he can think of is more as he claws at Will’s too long hair. The longer Will’s hair gets, the younger and wilder he looks. There are teeth and a grunt when Will’s hands find their way under Hannibal’s shirt, the pad of his thumb brushing roughly against the bullet wound on Hannibal’s abdomen. Hannibal growls in pain and pulls back. Will’s face in unreadable, closed-off.  

“I liked to kill him.” Will finally says, breathless. He’s angry, suddenly. That Hannibal stole a kiss form him like that, as if he belonged to Hannibal in any shape or form. “Doesn’t mean I’ll just go gallivanting around South America killing everyone that has the misfortune of stepping on your toes at the market or not thanking you for holding the door.” Will all but sneers that last part. “Took me a while to figure out how you chose them. The whole time it was right there, so painfully obvious. Ridiculous too.” Hannibal’s face is unreadable save for his parted lips, panting as he is from the kiss.

“Whenever feasible, one should eat the rude.” Hannibal states.

“The rude that murder and maim, perhaps. Not every last human who crosses paths with you and thinks your paisley ties are ridiculous. Which they are, by the way.” 

“So you’re okay with killing killers and rapists, but not innocents.” Hannibal muses, stepping back just a bit to leave them both some room to move and breath. Mostly because he fears if he stays in Will Graham’s gravitational space right now, he might hurt him, devour him, nail him to the bed until Will begs him to let him come. And it simply wouldn’t do, for him to take something Will hasn’t yet offered.

“Innocence is bullshit, according to you. And I’m not okay with killing. I enjoy it, because I’m about as fucked up as you are. Doesn’t mean I think it’s a pastime I should enjoy.”

“There’s no point in feeling guilty about what we like.” Hannibal sighs. It’s fascinating really to Will to hear him speak about it so openly. They haven’t had many chances to do this until now.

“What you like to do… what we like to do, isn’t exactly comparable to taking a fucking pottery class or doing yoga, Morton.” Will hisses. 

“How different is it? We’re good at it and we enjoy it. Plus, I’d argue that in most cases, my… pastime has made the world a better place. More bearable at least.”

“I’d agree with you if you’d only killed fucking Freddie Lounds. Wasn’t she rude enough to warrant a whole fucking buffet of her?”

“Her rudeness amused me.” Hannibal retorted. 

“You killed Abigail to spite me. To punish me.” Will says, his throat tight from anger and pain. 

“She didn’t belong with us.”

“She didn’t have to die because of it.” Will responds. He’s about to turn away and leave the room when Hannibal presses a warm palm to his cheek, tilting his head up to capture his gaze.

“My feelings for you…” Hannibal starts.

“Are inconvenient. We’ve covered that already. So are my feelings for you.” Will retorts. There’s no fire in the words anymore, though. Just exhaustion.

Hannibal’s thumb is on his bottom lip then, caressing it like it’s the most wonderful texture ever when really, Will knows his lips are chapped from the salty wind and the sea. Will darts out his tongue, brushing it lightly against Hannibal’s finger. Hannibal remains still, as if held in stasis. But Will can see how his pupils dilate, how the black of them devours nearly all of the warm chocolate brown. There’s heat, between them. Undeniable. Will never knew what to name it before now. It’s been there from the start, in their banter, in the way they moved so well together, in the way they’ve always been painfully comfortable in each other’s space, in each other’s company. Those lips on his have left a burning sensation. He yearns to kiss Hannibal some more and it’s like his identity is being ripped apart, like he’s outgrowing a shell, a previous life. He’s an imago, born anew to a new shape and form. And apparently, this shape and form really wants to claw Hannibal’s clothes off and lick whatever skin he can get to. Will opens his mouth to speak… or to kiss. He doesn’t know.

And then Will pulls back.

“I don’t know about you, but I need a walk. I need to get the hell out of here for a while.” Will says over his shoulder as he grabs a fresh shirt and kakis to pull on. Hannibal remains motionless.

“You’ll be seen.” Hannibal argues.

“It’s Miami, Dr. Lecter. Everyone wants to be seen and to look.” Hannibal can’t seem to argue. It’s a big city, everyone selfishly involved in their luxury cars and luxury swimsuits and their suntan and their expensive meals at ridiculously expensive restaurants, all this bordering the poverty of immigrants who work their asses off cleaning pools and hotel bedrooms for the rich and oblivious. They could very well blend in in that mass, at least for a few days. 

They’ve made their way into Miami’s port, anyhow, closer to South Beach. No one has bothered them either, the port authorities seemingly fine with their paperwork and fake passports. Incredible how a charming smile and a couple of carefully folded bills will do. 

“I need a real bed.” Will finally mutters, leaning back against the ladder that leads out of the cabin and onto deck. They’ve both retreated to the inside of the cabin, the deck making it too tempting to walk on the docks all the way to civilization. “Please.” There’s a half pout on Will’s lips, a simile of begging that makes Hannibal’s blood boil and long for a different kind of begging altogether. He knows Will knows what this does to him. 

So Hannibal produces a thick bill fold. It’s ridiculous how much money Hannibal has, really. And credit cards. A ton of them, including a pair of American Express Platinum credit cards, totally legal ones too, in the names of Dr. Morton Miller and John Smith. 

“Any preference for the hotel?” Hannibal asks, cocking his head to the side as he considers Will’s clothes critically. 

“You can choose. I wouldn’t want to offend your… sensibilities with my more mundane tastes.” Will chuckles.

“Well then you’ll have to dress the part.”

“Dress the part of what?”

“Of a pair of rich gentlemen come to Miami to spend some of their hard earned money.” Hannibal says. And he’s almost convincing. 

“Does this mean we can go to the strip club?” Will says, a half-smile on his lips. He’s kidding, obviously. He knows that Hannibal knows too, but it’s so much fun to toy with the man, to suggest the basest things and watch him squirm.

“Don’t be crass, Will. We’ll enjoy good meals and have some rest.”

“What’s our story for your bullet wound and my less than lovely mug?” Hannibal frowns at this. Will will always be lovely in his mind. The scars honestly make him all the more tragic and entrancing to look at. His cheek, however, will need to stay covered for now. It simply wouldn’t do to call more attention to themselves.

“Plastic surgery. Everyone has had something done here, have they not?” Hannibal muses. “As for my bullet wound, no one need to see it.”

“No pool time for Morton Miller then?” Hannibal simply sighs and starts putting some fancy clothes he’s produced from God knows where on the boat in an elegant leather suitcase. There’s a lot of stuff, enough for two men for a few days, really. 

“Put these on.” Hannibal says, handing him a pair of well-cut cream slacks, Italian tan leather shoes and a matching belt as well as a pale blue linen shirt to go with the ensemble. The whole thing screams money. Old money, none of that parvenu crap. 

Will doesn’t even have to look at the still present tags to know everything is in his size and everything was more expensive than half of his own wardrobe back home. Not that he has a home left, other than in the shape of Hannibal.

Will considers asking about what Hannibal will wear, but he doesn’t. He knows that Hannibal will look fabulous and extravagant, regardless of what he wears. He always looks like a panther wearing a tiger’s stripes. A peacock strutting about. It’s both amusing and terrifying. God knows how many tigers had to be skinned for Hannibal to cut a convincing suit.

They dress quietly, glancing at one another once in a while, out the corner of their eyes. They both look battered and tired, their bodies covered in bruises that are taking ages to fade. They do need some time off before they can think about sailing some more. A few days at best, three or four. Then they can sail to the Keys and further down when they’re ready.

Hannibal produces a box out of the leather case. It has two watches in it. A matching pair. They’re beautiful things, though Will would be hard pressed to value them. With how well he knows Hannibal’s taste for the extravagant and pricey, he wouldn’t be surprised if the pair was worth more than his own annual salary when he was a teacher at the Academy.

“Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Offshore Rubber Clad. Rose gold. I thought it would look better with both our complexions than the white gold model. Especially once you pick up a tan.”

“Jesus.” Will mutters as he slips the watch on. It’s… extravagant, for sure. But elegant and tasteful at the same time. He feels like he’s putting a new skin on, that of Hannibal Lecter’s expensive escort. It’s a role he somehow finds titillating and frustrating all at once.

“Thank you.” He finally mutters as he caresses the rubber surface and then the rose gold warming up to his skin. Hannibal nods in acknowledgement of the thanks and glances briefly at the tiny rope around Will Graham’s neck. Will catches Hannibal’s gaze straight on and grabs one of the two suitcases.

“Onwards to adventure.” Will mutters as he steps out on deck. It’s late afternoon. They’ve taken their time mooring into the marina. The sun is still warm on Will’s skin and there’s a slight breeze ruffling his too long hair. His facial hair looks ridiculous too. He desperately needs the services of a good barber. And a good razor to make himself look decent.

They take a taxi out of the marina and Hannibal gives the hotel name to the driver. The Mondrian South Beach Hotel. Will has never heard of it. He isn’t exactly surprised. Nor is he surprised when they arrive there and Hannibal produces a reservation from an elegant leather portfolio he’s kept at the front of his suitcase. Hannibal might as well be Houdini. 

The lobby of the hotel is breathtaking. All tall glass windows overlooking the bay, a floating staircase in a black glossy material, contrasting with the ever present white. In fact, the place looks very much like the complete opposite of Hannibal Lecter’s home, which is perhaps why he chose it.

A beautiful young lady greets them at the check-in desk after a well-groomed bell-boy has taken their luggage for them. Hannibal smiles pleasantly at everyone and no one even frowns at the fact that his partner or friend - it’s hard to tell for the employees at this point - is wearing a great big gauze bandage on his right cheek and desperately needs a haircut. It’s not like the employees of the Mondrian aren’t used to hosting a certain kind of clientele, one who spends about as much time getting botox shots and collagen injections as they do checking up on their stock market investments. Nothing that surprising about a pair of frankly good-looking gentlemen walking in to the hotel and asking for a reservation under the name of Dr. Morton Miller. No one seems to recognize Hannibal Lecter from all the pictures that have been in the newspapers and on television. The fact is, Hannibal does look different. His hair has grown a bit and with the sun, it has lost its sickly colouring from too much time spent indoors. His skin is tanned, more so than Will’s, which is surprising and not, at the same time. He looks glorious in his cream suit, pale yellow shirt and pocket square. Will saw the name on the tags. Ermenegildo Zegna. Doesn’t mean anything to him, but it sure looks fine as hell on Hannibal,

Janet, or so her badge says, is a beautiful woman, classy and polite. She doesn’t have the tacky air of the typical Floridian-born beauty queen, though there’s no doubt at all that she could win beauty contests if she so desired. Her skin is a warm chocolate-milk colour, her hair, usually a mess of curls, has been smoothed down. It’s a pale golden brown, almost blond at the tips. Her eyes are most startling. A mesmerizing jade green. Hannibal is pleasant with her while she looks at their passports and paperwork. She takes the credit card Hannibal slips on the glossy counter.

“Will it be the one or the two-bedroom suite? With a bay-view as per your request, Dr. Miller.” Janet says. Will finally looks away from the guests he’s been observing in the lobby.

“Two. Thank you.” He says, before Hannibal can interject. Will glances at him out the corner of his eye. There is a slight smile on his lips. It’s an insincere smile, the one he puts on to convince the world he’s really a person. Will knows better now. He’s the Devil in a person-suit.

“Of course, Mr. Smith. Would you like me to book you an appointment at our spa, for a haircut or massage, perhaps?” She asks, pleasantly. Coming from anyone else, it might be a rude thing to ask, but Janet knows her job well, and she knows how to package the most personal questions in a way that makes it sound like it’s part of the service package for her to inquire. Hannibal smiles. He likes her already. Inquisitive enough, but on her guards, a survivor, no doubt. 

“Sure. A haircut couldn’t hurt. We’ve been at sea a few days while I recovered and, alas, the sea wind has done nothing for my pitiful excuse of a haircut.” Will replies pleasantly. His tone is different, clipped, foreign to a certain extent. Hannibal finds it fascinating. It’s the furthest thing from the Will Graham he knows. It’s like Will has already adopted the speech and patterns of a character he’s created in John Smith. 

The rest of Hannibal’s conversation with Janet is lost to Will. He’s watching his fellow hotel clients. In the corner, he spots a man, mid forties, tall, handsome but too aware of it. The man is married, for sure. Will can see the spot where his wedding ring was, which he’s slipped off and left in the safe in his room. Cocky. A bit of a narcissist, but not pathologically so. A businessman on a trip to Florida. Cheating on his wife, no doubt. He lifts his head then, locks eyes with Will. Spots Hannibal behind him. And smiles. It’s a predatory smile. All white teeth and sharp angles. 

Will smiles, a shy, flirty smile. He’ll play John Smith alright. There’s a woman too. Sitting in the lobby, off to the side. She’s wearing a striking dress of pale silver fabric. Her hair is a long, glossy mane, almost as black as the striking staircase. It’s her eyes that shock Will the most. Blue, a zaffre blue. 

She looks like Alana Bloom. 

She isn’t Alana Bloom. Will has to look harder to make sure of it. He feels like he’s hallucinating again.

She can’t be Alana Bloom. 

Alana Bloom left the country with Margot and their son Toby a while back. But she looks like Alana. And Will is taken aback. Stopping in the middle of the lobby, staring at her. The woman doesn’t notice at first, busy as she is fumbling with her clutch, looking for a lipstick or lip balm. But then she looks up and she catches Will’s gaze and she’s taken aback by the intensity she sees in those eyes. She smiles, shyly, politely.

“Come, John” Hannibal interrupts, a gentle hand at Will’s elbow, guiding him to the elevators. 

“Afternoon.” Hannibal adds, for good form as he passes the woman. He can see why Will was taken aback by her. She does resemble Alana in numerous ways. But she doesn’t have Alana’s smile or Alana’s spunk and backbone.

Or death wish.

Hannibal has also spotted the man with his coveting eyes roving all over Will. He doesn’t like it one bit, but now would be a very bad time to risk attracting attention to himself or Will. They’re already pushing it traveling together with little to no disguise. When they reach their floor, Will leads the way, a sort of bored air on his face. The hotel is gorgeous. Elegant. It doesn’t seem to move Will one way or another.

The only thing Will really is looking forward to is the bathtub. He has an appointment with the barber in an hour, but he desperately wants to wash first. 

The rest of the suite is just ornamental, to Will. The suite is made in whites and creams and black with touches of mustard yellow here and there. It’s elegant and very modern. The bedrooms have dark grey carpets with some sort of baroque motif in black. There’s even a kitchen in the place, a striking thing made with blue, Provence-looking ceramics and silver appliances and a state of the art coffee machine. Will rolls his eyes when Hannibal goes straight for it to inspect it and start some coffee brewing.

“I thought the whole point of being here was to rest up. I’m sure they have decent enough food with the room service.” Will says before dragging himself to the bathroom. Now that’s a sight for sore eyes. The shower is a jumble of blues and turquoise, small tiles grouped together to look like a blurred pixelated rendering of the ocean. The bathtub is modern and slick, but not devoid of comfort like some modern furniture sometimes is. 

“I will go explore the hotel..” Hannibal starts to say when he sees that Will is drawing himself a bath.

“Sure.” Will says. He needs a bit of space, some time alone.

“I’ll make reservations at a restaurant for later tonight. Any preferences?”  “Nothing with people in it.” Will retorts, playfully. Hannibal suppresses a tiny smile before walking out of the hotel room.

Will slips in the bath gratefully. The warm water is blissful. He’s poured half a bottle of whatever fancy bath products the hotel has provided them with in the water and it’s now full of fragrant suds. Malin+Goetz, it read on the bottle. It smells a bit like dark rum, a pleasant smell. 

After his bath, Will wraps up in a fluffy white towel and dries off before putting on a fresh set of clothes left on the bed by Hannibal, no doubt. The ensemble is clearly part of a suit, but it seems like he won’t be forced to wear the jacket for the night. The underwear is the brand Will always buys, good quality, but not overly expensive. The pants are a lightweight fabric, suited for summer temperatures, but a medium shade of blue, in fact, very close to the colour of Will’s eyes. The tag reads Brunello Cucinelli and Will isn’t even remotely interested in looking for the price. He knows it’s going to be an obscene amount. The shirt is a creamy white, the tie that goes with the suit a similar blue to the pants with a lighter shade of bluish grey pattern, small circles here and there with a shiny finish to them which contrasts with the more matte fabric of the tie. It’s beautiful, really. It’ll look better on Will once he’s had that haircut too. He’s changed his bandage, which is now much smaller and less daunting on his face. It’s about two inches long, just long enough to cover the cut, which is high enough that the barber will be able to shave him without disturbing the injury. There’s a note, on the bed, near the clothes. It’s in Hannibal’s elegant scripture. He probably slipped back into the room whilst Will was in the bathtub. The man can be extremely silent moving about.

Somehow, it doesn’t unnerve Will anymore.

John,

Our reservation is at 8:30pm at Macchialina. We will walk there. It is but a short distance from the hotel. See you soon.  
 Morton 

Will crumbles the note in his hand before dropping it in the waste basket under the desk. Hannibal is nothing if not careful, but there is something strange to being called a name which isn’t his own. Hopefully, they may forgo these stupid precautions in private. 

Finding the spa isn’t as easy as Will would have thought. Perhaps because he has no idea what he’s really looking for. He ends up asking Janet at the reception where exactly he should head to get the much needed haircut and, as always, Janet is pleasant and kind and offers him a glass of champagne before guiding him to the more secluded section of the hotel where the spa is located. 

Will has left the tie off, for now. He dislikes wearing ties, however elegant they might be. He hopes Hannibal can forgive him this sartorial faux pas. Janet seems to think he looks damn fine in his clothes, if her small smile and the playful twinkle in her eyes is anything to go by. Surely, Hannibal won’t mind.

The spa is all made of white, with the exception of the front desk which looks like a disco ball. Will wants to roll his eyes. The wealthy do have strange taste.

The haircut is uneventful, the barber efficient and kind. He gives Will a hot towel shave and rubs oil on his cheeks gently, mindful of the bandage. He doesn’t even ask Will what the bandage is about, keeping professional and distant. He does break the silence once, to ask if it’s all right if he shaves Will’s cheeks and chin smooth with his cut throat razor.

“I’m afraid the sea salt has done nothing for your face and hair, my poor sir. It would be much better to shave off completely and then moisturize before you let it grow back at all.” Will nods. Whatever, maybe he’ll cut a better disguise if he looks like he’s barely twenty. Because that’s how he looks when he’s shaved smooth. It’s been sort of a matter of pride - mostly to be taken seriously in his profession, to be fair. His profession he’s long abandoned and he could do with a smooth face for now. The haircut, when the barber is done, is splendid. His curls which have been made a mess by too much time spent at sea, have been trimmed down in a more fashionable style. The shave is light and smooth and the barber dabs on a lightly citrusy oil on his cheeks when he’s done, smoothing down whatever burn the razor might have left on his skin. 

Will isn’t used to this kind of pampering, but he suddenly understand how people could get used to it. He thanks the barber profusely and gives him a generous tip. The bill will be footed to their room.

When he slips out of the spa, which is now closing, it’s nearly 8. The sky outside has taken on warm reddish and pink hues. The sun is about to set and it’s set the world on fire. The bay outside is glittering with gold and the boats in the marina bob lightly on the water. Hannibal is sitting in the lobby, reading a magazine. He’s showered and changed since earlier and he is now wearing a light taupe suit made of Milano wool, two buttons, no vest. The fabric of the suite has a wide square pattern on it in a darker brown shade. The tie is a greyish brown, much like that of the macro-check pattern. The shirt is a creamy white. When he looks up and sees Will, he pauses for a second.

“You shaved.” He simply says, his hand going up to caress Will’s now smooth cheeks. His fingers spread liquid fire under Will’s skin. Will swallows loudly.

“Yeah, it’ll grow back.”

“I like it.” 

“It makes me look twenty at best. We’ll be lucky if they don’t card me at the restaurant…” Will mutters, looking at the toes of his shoes, a faint blush on his uncovered cheek.

“It makes you look charming.” Hannibal replies, in a hushed tone. “And apparently, I am not the only one who thinks so.”

The lobby is busier at this time of day, with wealthy people walking in from early evening drinks and out for dinner reservations. There is a pair of older women, elegant and beautiful, standing near the staircase. They haven’t taken their eyes off Will since he stepped into the room. Nor have half the patrons in the place, really. The haircut is tasteful and lovely, taking advantage of the unruliness of Will’s natural hair. The suit is a perfect fit, even without the paired jacket and with the shirtsleeves rolled up to Will’s elbows. Will Graham looks good enough to eat.

Hannibal swallows audibly before cocking his head so Will will follow him. They step out of the lobby, keeping a reasonable space between them. It seems not to be enough, though.

“Now everyone in that hotel thinks I’m your escort.” Will says once they’re out of ear shot.

“You certainly look like you’re worth every penny of it.” Hannibal says, a small smile tugging at his lips.  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Will chuckles. The setting sun is warm on Will’s exposed skin. They walk down West Avenue, past the condo buildings that border the bay. There’s a Starbucks on their left and then a place called Oliver’s. They turn on that corner, on 9th street. Will doesn’t look much at his surroundings, so he’s a bit taken aback when Hannibal pulls him in a side door hidden from view and pushes him against a wall, crowding in on him. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls out Will’s tie from the pocket of his suit and starts doing it around Will’s neck. Will’s neck is warm and Hannibal touching him like this makes him want to crawl out of his skin. There’s something strangely erotic at having Hannibal so close, figuratively tying him on a leash. Will’s eyes are hooded as he gazes at Hannibal’s lips, which the man unconsciously licks. Will’s eyes travel up the man’s face as he tightens the tie, placing it properly under Will’s collar. A thumb brushes Will’s carotid, taking his pulse. It’s drumming, hard and fast. Hannibal’s eyes finally catch Will’s.

“Much better like this.” He simply murmurs. It feels like he’s about to kiss Will, and Will already feels heady for it, but Hannibal pushes away, brushing inexistent lint off Will’s shoulder.

“Love that aftershave on you.” Hannibal adds over his shoulder before walking away towards Alton Road, certain as he is that Will is going to follow. Macchialina doesn’t look like much from the outside, standing in the same small and low building as a Liquor store. Will follows Hannibal inside and glances around as Hannibal gives their name to the young man manning the reservation book. The place is a mix of industrial looks with exposed brick and wooden furniture. It’s dark and moody, with red lights creating a cabaret-ish atmosphere over the bar. There are many patrons in the place, in fact it is quite packed.  
 “One of the best tables in this part of town.” Hannibal explains quietly as they are led to a secluded table in the back. Will sits on the leather banquette, Hannibal across from him. Will pretends like he doesn’t nearly push the table aside to sit on Hannibal’s lap when Hannibal’s ankle brushes him under the table. There are menus in front of them and as Hannibal orders them some bottled water, Will tries to read it. The noise in the room is at a very reasonable level, with the occasional female laugh bursting here and there. There is a hum of satisfaction from people eating food around them. Will observes them rather than trying to decipher the menu in the half-light. The candle on their table emits a warm glow which nearly hides the blush on Will’s face.

“Everyone thinks I’m your date.” Will finally says, avoiding eye contact with Hannibal as their knees brush under the table. 

“Isn’t this sort of a date?” Hannibal asks, amused.

“Our first date that doesn’t include therapy or murder. How grand.” Will all but whispers. Because it is a date, they’ve been dancing around it for long enough now. Dating one another in the most bizarre fashion, under the guises of friendship at first. But all pretences have been dropped, now. 

“I was never really your psychiatrist, Will.” Hannibal argues. They can permit themselves these slight slips, here. No one is paying them attention enough to note their names or even consider their faces carefully enough to see they are the two men who’s faces have been broadcasted on television for the past two weeks.

“No?” Will retorts, ripping a small piece of bread from the fancy basket that their waitress has just deposited on their table, along with a bottle of water.

“I never wanted to be just your therapist.” Hannibal continues, his eyes on the menu. Will grabs his own and finally gives it a good and proper appraisal. They start with cocktails, first. Will orders one called Under the Tuscan Sun. Feels properly ironic to drink that, considering what happened to them in Florence. He hasn’t even really looked at the ingredients. He just needs something strong. Hannibal, always one for dark humour, orders a cocktail called Corpse Reviver. Will bites his lip not to chuckle.

“I’m curious about their Botanist Gin.” Hannibal defends his choice with an amused grin. “Wine with the meal, perhaps?” Hannibal continues, his eyes never leaving Will’s lips. 

“Sure, whatever you like.” Will retorts. When Will finds himself unable to choose anything, Hannibal suggest they try the Chef’s Tasting menu. When the waitress returns with their cocktails, he orders for both of them, questioning the woman about their wine list and what would pair best with their meal, as if he wasn’t a much better sommelier than the woman surely can ever hope to be. Hannibal settles for a bottle of red, the name of which Will forgets the moment it has been ordered in near perfect Italian by Hannibal. The waitress, of Italian descent, immediately becomes friendlier with them, conversing for a minute or two with Hannibal. Will couldn’t care less. All he can think about right now is the warm fingers on his knee under the table, rubbing circles inside the dimple next to his kneecap.

Hannibal’s ease at keeping up a conversation and sipping his Corpse Reviver thoughtfully astounds Will. Will starts looking around the room at other patrons to distract himself from the heat gathering in his groin. If he’s been heterosexual before, he can’t say he’d call himself that now, not anymore. 

Everyone is very much busy in their conversations, most people on dates or with groups of friends, drinking good wine and enjoying the fabulous pasta the place has to offer. No one seems to be paying him and Hannibal any attention, except this one man in the corner. He’s clearly here on business, at least based on his suit and the fact he’s sitting with two men both with work cases near their feet. The man is staring openly at Will and at the back of Hannibal’s head. He looks equal parts puzzled and terrified. It’s not a good look on him. He’s middle-aged, tall, blonde, with a rather pudgy face for someone seemingly so lean. He’s recognized them, of that, Will is certain. He turns away slowly, trying to seem natural when he gives Hannibal a warm smile. The waitress has just abandoned them to place their order and Hannibal’s gaze in on his, very serious.  
 “What is it.” Hannibal says. He’s felt Will tense. He knows something is up. He’s also become more alert, not that anyone could tell other than Will, based on how relaxed he still looks, sipping his cocktail. 

“Seven o’clock, behind you. Tall, blonde, sort of pudgy looking man. He won’t stop starring at me and you. He knows us. At least he knows who we are.” Will doesn’t add that the man looks absolutely livid. HIs business partners don’t seem to have noticed just yet, busy as they are flirting with four women friends sitting at a nearby table, all dressed in fancy dresses. 

Hannibal glances up to the corner of the room where a mirror hanging behind the bar gives a less obstructed view of the room. He spots the man immediately. And sighs.

“Trouble.” Hannibal says, softly. He seems genuinely bored, rather than unnerved by the prospect of them being found.

“You know him?” Will asks, sipping at his cocktail, his right hand trembling around the glass. His left hand is still bandaged, but in a less-crude and more fashionable fashion than when they were on the boat. 

“An old patient of mine. He used to come in right before Franklyn.” Hannibal replies. Will remembers the patient whom Tobias Budge murdered. And is suddenly hit with the though that perhaps Budge didn’t snap his neck at all, and perhaps Hannibal did.

“Christ.”  “His name is Benjamin Dawson. Was always overly concerned with his wife cheating on him, which she obviously was. I used to sketch buildings during our sessions. He was so painfully boring.” Hannibal explains. Will’s eyes widen.

“This isn’t funny. He’s clearly recognized us. What’s to tell us he won’t call the police?”

“Don’t look so agitated, Will. He won’t do anything just yet. Too much of a coward. He’d have to come closer to verify my identity, anyhow. And he won’t.” Hannibal replies. He seems so sure of himself. So certain. Will’s nerves are still tightly wound up, like the chords of a piano. Hannibal’s hand slides higher on his thigh under the table and gently presses a thumb inside Will’s thigh. Will’s thigh open up of their own volition and his eyes become half-lidded.

“You’re playing with fire.” Will murmurs.

“And it makes this all the more amusing, no?” Hannibal replies, a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile on his lips as he sips down the last of his drink. 

Will breathes out heavily grabs Hannibal’s fingers under the table.

“Unless you want me to make a very embarrassing noise right here and now, you’ll have to stop this.” He whispers, nervously glancing at Benjamin Dawson. His attentions seem to have returned to his business partners and a bit more colour has returned to his cheeks. Perhaps the danger is averted for now.

Hannibal smiles cheekily and places his hand back on the table just as their waitress, Allegra, returns with their wine bottle. She serves them professionally, blushing slightly when Will gives her a shy smile and thanks her in his best Italian, which is not much good at all.

“Salute” Hannibal murmurs, clinking his glass with Will’s. Will glances one last time at Benjamin Dawson before responding.  “Salute.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cocktail names are real, btw. Part of the Macchialina menu ;) Benjamin Dawson is part a creation of my mind, part careful observation of Hannibal's RV book from back in Season 1, part inspiration from the Thomas Harris canon. There is a real B.Dawson on that RV list, I just have no idea what his first name is or if he's even a man, but for the sake of this story, he'll be Benjamin (part ode to Benjamin Raspail ;)!) Dawson. 
> 
> Feedback is always dearly appreciated. Same goes for suggestions and comments (if you see typos or errors or anything of the sort).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating goes up with this one, officially... Check out the new tags. This one is a long one, too. 
> 
> Also, un-betaed. All mistakes and typos are my own damn fault. Please point out major issues if you see them. 
> 
> Also, I am officially going to hell in a hand-basket. :)
> 
> I want to thank you all for your comments and feedback. It's always delightful to read you and it's inspiring.

The meal is delicious, obviously Will wouldn’t expect anything less of Hannibal’s restaurant choices. The first plate is some sort of lasagna-looking dish made with eggplants and creamy ricotta.   

“Tortino di melanzane” Hannibal explains as Will closes his eyes in bliss with the first bite.

“This is fucking amazing” Will comments. Hannibal squeezes his knee under the table when he swears. Will considers briefly adding a few more colourful expletives if it might make Hannibal’s hand climb that much higher on his thigh.

“You didn’t use to swear so much” He comments, cutting himself a perfectly square bite before eating it slowly, thoughtfully. Will takes a sip from his wine, gazing teasingly at Hannibal over the rim of the glass.

“I didn’t use to murder people and enjoy it either. I also didn’t use to have my face all cut up and to live on a sail boat. The status quo has changed. Makes sense that I would change too. Plus, it would have been embarrassing to swear like a sailor in front of you with your three-piece suits and your hideous ties.”

“You really have something against my ties, don’t you?”

“They’re terrible, yes. Pretty much everyone with eyes would agree. Even a couple of people without them might have a word or two to say about paisley galore.”

“Anything else you dislike about me?” Hannibal asks, casually. Will knows that the question is loaded, like the truncated barrel of a shotgun. If Hannibal goes off, it will be messy. But there is something extremely endearing and humanizing about Hannibal Lecter showing his insecurities.

 “Ever wear a t-shirt? You ever not in control of everything?” Will says, emboldened.

“I haven’t been in control much since I met you, alas” Hannibal replies, and Will cannot help but feel like he’s telling the truth. Which is… disturbing.  “If that is you not in control, I dare not imagine what you’d be like when you are…” Will mutters, taking a larger gulp of wine than necessary.

  
 “As for the t-shirts, yes, I have been known from time to time to wear them” Hannibal adds. A silence settles upon them, only punctuated by Will’s near moans when he takes a bite of their next course. It is a dish of delicately presented octopus with a potato crema. Hannibal finds it slightly over-cooked - barely, really - but Will doesn’t seem to mind. Hannibal can feel heat gathering in his groin, watching Will so freely enjoying a meal, even if it’s one he hasn’t made. There is something about the way Will Graham does most things that just catches the eye. Makes it hard to look away, especially for Hannibal, it seems.

“What do people usually talk about during dates?” Hannibal chirps, moments later when Allegra has come to take their empty plates.

“You’ve never been on a date before?” Will asks, cocking his head to the side. Somehow, Will finds that hard to believe. There is no way that a man as attractive as Hannibal, no matter his shortcomings in terms of empathy, hasn’t been on a bunch of dates. He’s always suspected Hannibal’s tastes might run in various directions - he’s never really pegged Hannibal as the kind of person to let something like gender get in the way. Somehow, he’s never imagined how Hannibal might be on dates with either men or women, but he’s certain it must have happened. If Hannibal is a psychopath (though Will is quite certain there is no way to define Hannibal in such simplistic terms), he’d at least have given dating a go if only to try his hand at it and learn the basics of this most primal human interaction.

“Not exactly. Not in so much words” Hannibal replies.

“Didn’t you date Alana? And Bedelia? And probably numerous others before that?” Will adds, with a sour face, as if he’s just bitten on a particularly acrid lemon.

“I had sex with them. I shared meals with them. I can’t exactly say I had feelings for them beyond a certain friendliness. Bedelia and Alana, that is. As for before…I had affairs, certainly. The carnal matters are of a certain interest, though I usually get bored rather quickly with the whole charade.”

“Always with women?”

  Hannibal smiles at that. A flirty, charming, completely unnerving smile. Will swallows loudly and looks down, a faint blush on his cheeks. He feels warm all over suddenly. Perhaps it’s the wine. He’s lost count of how many glasses he’s had by then. No more than two or three, for sure, but he can never really tell since Hannibal always refills his glass before he can even finish it.

“Some of them were women. A couple of them were men. I find there is always an interesting power struggle in sexual encounters with men” Hannibal says.

Will’s fingers are caressing the stem of his wine glass, unconsciously. Hannibal’s gaze is drawn to the simple gesture. Sex and phallic shapes are so often entwined in the minds of males. Will has beautiful hands, the hands of someone who can build and destroy things. Hannibal is particularly interested in seeing them destroy. It’s a shame that his skin has suffered so much from handling ropes and hoisting sails. And that dreadful cut in his left palm.

“I wouldn’t know.” Will finally says, gazing at Hannibal from below his lashes. “I mean I tried things in college, like everyone else. Just… not that exactly.”

“What sorts of things?” Hannibal asks. Will looks up, eyes twinkling. Perhaps he should strop drinking now, lest he make a fool of himself. Hannibal’s face is the most interested he’s seen it all evening. There are those charming little creases at the corners of his eyes where his sharp cheekbones jut out in a smile.

“Are you flirting with me, Doctor?” Will asks, amused.

“Haven’t I always been?” Hannibal replies. And Will can’t deny it, at this point. From that first breakfast when they had barely met, Hannibal has been courting him. “What sort of experimenting have you indulged in, then?”  

“If you really must know, I had this guy who studied with me back in George Washington University. He was attractive, really, for a guy. I didn’t really swing that way then, don’t think I swing that way now” Except for you is left unsaid. Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind either way.

“Was he in love with you?” Hannibal asks, astute.

“I didn’t realize it at first. He had a girlfriend, not a very nice girl. She liked to… torment me. Make fun of me because I wasn’t exactly the most social creature around.”

Hannibal is silent, drinking in Will’s every word.

“Anyways… This one night, she tells him that she doesn’t want to be with him anymore, calls him a bunch of names. He finds out the next day she’d been cheating on him with another guy. We went out, got piss-drunk. Almost got mugged passing in some more unsavoury neighbourhood in Washington. We get to this club, it was a gay club I think. Not that I really cared by that point. There were all sorts of people around, kissing, making-out in corners. He pushed me up against a wall and started making out with me. At first I didn’t really know what to do and it was… well it was nice. He was a good kisser, and he was my friend and…”

“And you were capable of channeling his attraction to you” Hannibal completed. “That must be…”

  “Troubling. Unless I’m very drunk. I’m no narcissist, Doctor” Will replied.

“You are extremely attractive. Acknowledging the effect you have on others wouldn’t make you a narcissist, Will.”  Will actually chuckled at that.

“I wouldn’t exactly call all this attractive.” Will gestured briefly to the gauze on his cheek and the numerous scars that marred his face, most of which he could attribute to Hannibal Lecter himself, either as a direct cause or as a catalyst.

Hannibal frowned slightly.

“You are completely unaware of just how unnerving you are. How… mesmerizing. Unique.”

“My ability to empathize with people is not usually found attractive by most. At best, people find it rude. At worst, it terrifies them.”

“And yet you ensnare others. We are often tempted by things we do not understand and fear. It’s a primal curiosity.” Hannibal’s knee brushes Will’s under the table and it’s like electricity coursing through Will’s body.

“Do you want the rest of the story or not?” Will suddenly asks.

“Of course. So you made out with this young man…” Hannibal gestures, as if to fish for the boy’s name.  “I won’t give you his name.” Will replies. He’s amused, somehow, by this entire conversation. He isn’t one to fish for compliments, really not. It is unnerving to him that Hannibal would bestow them upon him so freely. And it is endlessly amusing to see Hannibal’s eyes darken with lust and petty jealousy as Will spins his tale.

“He gave me a blowjob in the bathrooms there. Best damn blow job in my life, if I’m honest” Will adds. And now he’s certain it’s the wine talking. And yet, he just grabs his glass and swallows a mouthful.

“Did you reciprocate?” Hannibal asks, tone mild and light.

“I gave him a hand job, later, in his dorm room. Probably a terrible one too, considering I was blind drunk. And then we slept. Woke up with a splitting headache. We never spoke of it again.” Will finished, glad to see Allegra approaching their table with their next course.

“And you have never experimented since then?”

  “I kissed you” Will replies. “Does that count?”

  “I hope I’m more than an experimentation” Hannibal says, serious.

“I think it’s fair to say I have shared things with you that go beyond the realm of experimentation, Hannibal.”

The candlelight paints Will in beautiful tones of rose gold and warm sienna. He looks like a chiaroscuro painting from the Renaissance masters. Hannibal wishes suddenly he had his sketch book with him. He wonders if perhaps Will will pose for him, once the dust has settled a bit.

In the mirror, Hannibal can see Benjamin Dawson. He is still at his table with his “business partners”, no doubt two poor fellows he will milk for all they’re worth. Benjamin Dawson is after all rather good at what he does. He also is looking at Hannibal’s table, every once in a while. He’s less terrified than before. Now his eyes are more calculating.

Hannibal doesn’t like it one bit.

  
 “Bedelia said we had both been your brides.” Will suddenly says, his gaze on their third plate, a fragrant risotto with saffron and parmigiano-reggiano. Will has been saying other things but Hannibal wasn’t paying attention. His trained response as a bored psychiatrist is to respond with a question.

“Did she?”  “She said we were both Bluebeard’s wives. And that she’d have preferred to be the last. I don’t know if she thought that made me your last…” Will continues, twirling his fork in his food. He glances at the couple at the table next to them. The woman is beautiful, dark haired with olive skin. The man looks like a healthy footballer type, golden hair and healthy skin with white, clean teeth. They’re well-matched, in a way. On their third date, as far as Will can tell. He doesn’t want to think if they might work out or not. He too often is right. He glances then at the man, Benjamin Dawson. He has an uneasy feeling about the man, like he’s some sort of poisonous snake he should worry about. Will recalls then how Hannibal called him the mongoose he’d want under the house when the snakes slitter by and he thinks then that perhaps he should trust his instincts more.

“Bedelia has always been too smart for her own good.” Hannibal responds, enigmatic.

“Why didn’t you kill her in Europe?”

  “Why would I have wanted to do such a thing?” Hannibal asks.

“She remains unscathed by your… relationship.” Will adds. There are words left unsaid. Questions Will clearly wants to ask but won’t, not out of fear, no. Out of something else that Hannibal can’t quite place.

“What are you asking, Will?” Hannibal presses, his hand finding Will’s on the table.

“She seems to have known all along what your feelings for me were. How destructive they might be for me.” Will continues, his thumb grazing the skin between Hannibal’s pinky and ring finger.

“Bedelia was a good companion, at times when I could not have you. A replacement of sorts. I would hardly compare a diamond in the buff with a zircon crystal, though they might shine as brightly when polished.”

Will is silent for a second there. He ponders the implications of Hannibal calling him a diamond in the buff, something unrefined, unfinished. A work in process.

“She is spiteful, towards you. Terrified too. She called me a foolish man when I informed her that the FBI would stage your escape. Do you intend to call on her?”

“I made her a promise.”

“You made a promise to Alana too.” Will reminds him. And there is fire and brimstone in his voice. Alana is a sore subject between them. There is no way around it.

“Which I intend to keep.” Hannibal says, simply, before taking a graceful bite of risotto.

“Not while I’m alive, you won’t. I won’t let you.” Will retorts, pulling his hand away from Hannibal as if he’s been burned. His knuckles go white around his fork. It’s dizzying how he can go from wanting to rip Hannibal’s clothes off with his teeth to wanting to stab the man with a fork in less than a minute. The only constant in their relationship is how strongly he feels about Hannibal. How much he feels seen by the man. How passionately entwined he is with him.

“Let me?” Hannibal says, careful. There is danger in his words.

“She has a child, for fuck’s sake. And Margot.” Will replies. It’s beautiful, to watch him get so worked up and Hannibal cannot help but push it a little bit further.

“You had a child too. You tried to replace her. Surely that child can replace its mother just as easily.”

Will blanches then. It’s like blood flows heavily to his head and he can feel his muscles tense with the need to punch or kick or hit.

“Excuse me.” He mutters before dropping his serviette on the table and walking stiffly towards the bathrooms in the back of the restaurant. He needs some space, lest he actually punch Hannibal in the face. He’s not hungry anymore, either. There’s anger, boiling in his veins, pressure building. He feels like a kettle about to whistle. He doesn’t want to see what that will look like when he actually snaps. The last time it happened, he killed a man.

The men’s room is thankfully empty. Will starts the tap for cold water running and drinks from it, to clear his head. He splashes his face, mindful of the bandage on his cheek, before fingering the thin cotton rope around his neck and pulling out the ring to look at it. He doesn’t hear the door open behind him, but when he looks up, the pudgy faced man is standing there, looking at him in the mirror.

“He’s a dangerous man, you know.” The man says to Will. Will stares at him in the mirror, confused. The man is warning him against Hannibal, rather than denouncing him as a traitor to his own cause? Perhaps the news haven’t spoken much of Will’s involvement in the Red Dragon’s death, then.

“Do I know you?” Will asks, drying his hands on the fancy towels the restaurant provides.

“No. But I know the man you’re having dinner with. You should watch out for yourself.”

“Excuse me?” Will says, a fake chuckle escaping his lips.

“You don’t know whom he is?”

  
 “I’m not following.”

“Your date.” The pudgy faced man insists, a frown on his face. He’s getting irritated by the second, and clearly has not recognized Will for whom he really is, that much is obvious.

“He’s an old friend of mine, not the least bit dangerous unless he’s very drunk and you insult his taste in beers.” Will replies, with the half-smile of the sociable and polite society. “Perhaps you’ve mistaken him for someone else?”

  “Don’t say I haven’t warned you…” The man says before turning and standing in front of the urinals to take care of his business. Will steps out of the men’s room and debates going back to his table to finish his meal with Hannibal. He really is furious, but their safety is first and foremost.

“He knows exactly who you are.” Will hisses under his breath when he sits back at the table. “Apparently doesn’t have a clue as to whom I am, except perhaps your next meal.” Hannibal looks nonplussed by the news.

“You look different than the photos they have advertised of you, certainly.”

“He knows who you are, Hannibal. What’s to say he won’t call the police the moment he walks out of this place? What’s to say that’s not what he’s doing right now?”

“You have to trust me Will.” Hannibal says, trying to quiet him down. He’s seen Benjamin follow Will to the men’s room the moment he noticed Will had stormed away from their table. Clearly, Benjamin Dawson still enjoys nosing about in other people’s business. Hannibal has always profoundly disliked that specific trait in Benjamin.

“I’m not hungry anymore.” Will mutters. “I’ll see you at the hotel.” He stands to leave just as Allegra is returning to the table with the next course. Will excuses himself and fumbles around with his wallet to pay his half of the meal, leaving a lot more than is required. He wonders for a few minutes as he walks in the dark streets if Hannibal will find some way to punish him for being rude and leaving him like that. But then again, he wants to punch the living lights out of the man right about now so he’d almost welcome an incentive to pick up a fight.

The lobby is fairly quiet when Will steps back into their hotel. Hannibal has yet to catch up with him. Probably stayed behind to finish his meal, anyhow. Their suite is quiet and the maid has been by to turn down the covers in their beds and leave them some chocolates on their pillows. Will just drops the sweet on the bedside table before lying on his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He thinks of Jack Crawford. How on earth he’ll be able to explain what happened between Hannibal, Dolarhyde and him in that house on the cliff. How on earth he’ll be able to explain the five FBI agents that were killed in the botched escape.

Will grabs the ring around his neck once more. He longs to hear Molly’s voice. He knows he can’t and it would be foolish to even try, but he’d love to call her cell phone, if only to hear her recorded voice message. He teased her, once, about it. About how silly it was. But it suited her. She’s a sweet woman. She didn’t deserve the rollercoaster she embarked herself on when she married Will Graham.

By the time Hannibal gets back to their hotel room, Will has taken off the beautiful clothes Hannibal bought him and hung them in the closet. He debated rolling them up and throwing them out in a bout of childishness but decided against it. He’s wearing a pair of fresh boxers and a t-shirt, as per his habit and his doing his best impression of someone sleeping. He feels the weight of Hannibal’s gaze on him when the man steps into his bedroom.

“As you can see, I am still very much alive and free, Will. So are you. You worry way too much.” Hannibal says, his voice smooth and calming. Will doesn’t acknowledge Hannibal’s presence further then by turning his back on him.

He feels Hannibal’s weight settle on the bed behind him, and then a warm hand on his hip, just laying there, heavy with meaning and unsaid things.

“Let us speak tomorrow morning.” Hannibal adds, standing back up. “Good night, Will” he says before stepping out of the room.

A long time passes before there is movement again in their suite. Will has been laying there, in the pitch darkness, thinking. Unable to sleep for all that is swirling in his mind. On the bedside table, he can see the digital clock emitting a faint glow. It’s 2:23 am.

He is surprised when he notices that Hannibal is getting dressed again, as silently as possible. He clearly does not want to wake Will and it doesn’t sit well with Will. Somehow, he knows that Hannibal can be up to no good. Will waits patiently until he finally hears the click of the suite door closing behind Hannibal before he slips out of bed too and fumbles around for clothes to wear. He finds a pair of jeans that are soft to the touch as well as a black t-shirt in his size. He slips them on before slipping out of the room in search of Hannibal. Hannibal is surprisingly easy to find, casually stepping out of the hotel lobby when Will reaches the lobby himself. He gives Hannibal some breathing space and follows at a leisurely pace.

There is something coiling, deep down in Will’s belly. He knows exactly what Hannibal is doing, somehow, and at the same time, he refuses to believe it. He expects Hannibal to head for the marina where there are numerous hotels, but instead, he finds himself following Hannibal across the narrow island that is South Beach all the way to Washington Avenue where loud music is blaring from dozens of clubs and bars lining the street. Drunken people are ambling along in the dark streets where the neon lights of the bar signs create patches of sickly light. Palm trees are lit up in shades of blues and purples and pinks, creating a bizarres skyline. There are more and more people on the sidewalks as they go and it becomes increasingly harder to follow Hannibal who suddenly disappears in a doorway. Will debates following him in but decides to wait him out instead, bumming a cigarette he has no intention of smoking just so he can look busy, off an inebriated young woman squeezed tight in a bright orange dress. The young woman gives him an appraising look before pointing to his cheek and rudely asking what happened to him. Will gives her a half-arsed answer, his eyes never leaving the door of the club in which Hannibal has disappeared. The young woman soon loses interest and heads off to meet up with her friends further down the road.

Will sticks the cigarette between his lips and waits patiently. He’s soon rewarded when no other than Benjamin Dawson barges out of the club. Only he looks nothing like he did a couple hours ago in Macchialina. He’s now wearing a tight t-shirt that accentuates a well-toned body and a pair of pants too tight to be comfortable. He also looks terrified and is looking over his shoulder, searching the crowd at the door of the club for a familiar face. He almost bumps into Will who manages to move out of his way without being seen or recognized. A minute later, Hannibal emerges from the club. He looks strikingly different in this neon light which paints his face in hues of red and pink. Hannibal is wearing a tight, white t-shirt and dark jeans. He looks so foreign in those clothes that Will almost doesn’t recognize him at first. Hannibal is clearly following Benjamin Dawson who’s now about halfway down the block near a dark alley. Will pulls back from his vantage point and hides amongst the crowd when Hannibal passes by, walking at a leisurely pace after his prey. Because this is what Hannibal is doing, right now. He’s hunting.

A shiver goes down Will’s spine, equal parts terror and excitement. There is something absolutely lethal in Hannibal’s walk, yet no one but his intended victim and Will himself seem to notice just how out of place Hannibal is on this sidewalk, dressed to melt in with the crowd, but alien to this population in a way that borders on ridiculous. Will drops his unused cigarette and crushes it on the ground before following Hannibal down the alley in which Benjamin Dawson has now disappeared. He hopes he can perhaps distract Hannibal long enough for that moron Dawson guy to get the hell out of dodge.

The alley seems ridiculously dark after the neon lit avenue. Through the brick walls that line it, Will can feel the pulsing music from the clubs. Will’s eyes take a moment to adjust. He can hear voices, down in the back, behind dumpsters that are blissfully empty and don’t smell much, even in this heat. The air is humid and Will’s t-shirt sticks to his back as he advances, carefully, in the dark. There’s an argument going on. Clearly Dawson is pleading for his life. The man should know better…

When Will finally steps around the dumpster, he’s treated to a sight that stops him in his tracks. Benjamin Dawson has a knife in his gut and is staring wide-eyed at Will, wrapped in Hannibal’s arms, his back to Hannibal’s chest, as the life drains out of him.

“Fuck.” Will murmurs. Hannibal turns his head like a lazy cat, a ferocious glint in his eyes and there is heat in that gaze. One of his hands is holding the pocket knife which is still embedded in Benjamin’s stomach, slicing it from right to left.

  
 “Do you watch or do you partake?” Hannibal asks, a strong muscular arm around Benjamin’s neck as the man struggles out of the hold and falls to his knees between Hannibal and Will.

It’s too late to escape, though, and Will can see it. Benjamin’s shirt is sticky with his own blood and the smell of it is strong in the alley. It’s a smell you never forget once you’ve smelled it once before, the smell of death. He’s been nearly gutted by Hannibal’s knife which is wiped efficiently on a pocket square before being folded back and slipped into a leg holster. Hannibal is calm and collected, as if he hasn’t just murdered a man in cold blood.

  
 Will doesn’t even respond to Hannibal, simply steps back, pressing his sweaty back against the brick wall. He can feel his breath coming in rapid bursts, pants, really, much faster than the music throbbing through the brick and into his back. His vision blurs a bit, and in it, Hannibal, whose t-shirt is still white and pristine even after gutting a man, turns into the stag, dark figure and then back into Hannibal. Will’s hand clutches at his chest as his knees give out and he slips down the wall of the alley, pressing his head between his knees.

Panic attack. He hasn’t had one of those in about two years.

There are hands, then. Warm and callused on his shoulders, rubbing at his neck tenderly. Will wants to throw up and feels the rush of blood in his groin. He is a sick, sick man. The fact that he’s equally aroused and disgusted by what he just witnessed makes him want to claw out of his skin and disappear in the ground.

“Shhh, shhh” Hannibal whispers, his lips at Will’s temple. “Take slower breaths, Will. Slow” he instructs, professionally. Will can smell his aftershave and it’s a heady mix with Dawson’s blood on the ground. Will moans, softly. There is so much blood on the ground, gurgling out of Dawson’s lips and through his hands which are clasped, trying to hold his guts inside his body.

“How… how did you know where to find him” Will gasps in between pants, lifting his head to capture Hannibal’s grounding gaze with his. Hannibal is cool and collected and it is unnerving.

“He was a patient of mine for quite some time. A manipulative man, a petty thief and a criminal. You should feel no guilt about him dying. He had it coming.” Hannibal explains, as if it erases the crime.

“You said he would not cause trouble.” Will stutters. Hannibal is so near and so warm and inviting and Will’s entire body is trembling violently. He wants, he wants so bad and he feels horrified by the fact that all he can think of right now is how much he wants the man in front of him.

“I might have fibbed a bit.” Hannibal retorts, slowly helping Will up to his feet and ensuring he can stand before he goes and takes out Benjamin’s wallet and watch off his corpse.

“What are you doing?” Will asks, wrapping his arms around himself to hold himself together as if he’s afraid he might fall apart if he doesn’t.

“Poor Mr. Dawson was mugged and gutted when he refused to hand over his money.” Hannibal explains before slipping the wallet and watch in his pockets. “Come now.”

“Christ.” Will murmurs. And then there are voices at the mouth of the alley. A couple who seems to be looking for a dark place to indulge in some carnal activities, far from the prying eyes of the party goers on the street. Hannibal grabs Will’s hand and pulls him further down in the darkness of the alley, turning a corner and then another towards a better lit alley. Will’s hand is numb in Hannibal’s hand but he’s started to breath more regularly. And now all Will can feel is the heat of Hannibal’s palm against his, the strong tendons and muscles of his hand, the hypnotizing rhythm that Hannibal’s thumb is rubbing into his own palm. Will almost moans. His jeans are uncomfortably tight at the groin and he can still smell faintly Benjamin’s blood on Hannibal’s thankfully dark pants.

Suddenly, there is a scream on the street, somewhere far off. Will doesn’t know why someone would scream so loud, but it isn’t because they have found Benjamin, and that reassures him. The yell barely echoes over the noise of the opened door in front of them where Hannibal drags them in. It’s the back entrance of a dark, night club, pumping with a low bass music. Hannibal seems to know where he is going so Will just follows, dizzied by the stroboscopic sodium lights bursting into the darkness, revealing bodies grinding into other bodies. It’s like the mass of the crowd is one pulsing, breathing animal and Hannibal is slipping past it all, a magnetic force dragging Will in his orbit after him. They finally reach an even darker corner of the club. There is a fancy logo that indicates they are in the men’s rooms. The music is as present here as it is outside and the lighting is red, making everything look bloody and magnificent. Will’s mouth is dry suddenly and he wets his lips nervously whilst Hannibal calmly washes his hands, his gaze never leaving Will’s in the mirror above the intricate granite sink.

The next moment, Will grabs Hannibal and drags him into an empty, thankfully very clean toilet stall and pushes him up against the partition.

“You mad fucker” Will mutters, panting against Hannibal’s lips before kissing him with bruising force. Will’s teeth bite at Hannibal’s tongue and lips and he plunges in, tasting every inch of the older man’s mouth. It’s like Will is trying to climb into Hannibal’s skin and Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind much. If Hannibal’s near feral growl when Will lips travel to his collar bone and he bites him on the shoulder is anything to go by, Hannibal is a more than willing participant.

“Makes you feel alive, doesn’t it, to watch death?” Hannibal grunts when Will’s knee spreads his thighs and pushes in and up, his strong muscle brushing against Hannibal’s groin. Will can feel Hannibal’s erection and it’s making his own blood pump faster and faster. And it doesn’t matter anymore that Hannibal is very much a man, at least in shape and form - Will thinks he might be the Devil incarnate, really. It doesn’t matter anymore because all that Will’s brain seems to be able to compute at the moment is _more, more, more_.

“Shut up” Will grunts, his lips licking at the shell of Hannibal’s ear. “Who’s who in your little scenario? Are you the boy in love who sucks me off or am I? Do I give you a hand job later when we get back to the hotel or maybe you want me to blow you too?” Will’s lips find Hannibal’s carotid and he sucks there, harshly. He feels like an animal in heat, all that’s simmered between him and Hannibal boiling up into a tremendous storm that thunders through his brain, spreading a fever in his body.

Hannibal doesn’t respond, instead, he pushes off his side of the stall and presses Will against the other side, a hand against Will’s throat, cutting off his air, the other undoing the jeans swiftly.

“There was so much blood” Will whimpers, trying to breathe through Hannibal’s hold. His eyes close of their own volition and he throws his head back, exposing his throat some more to the apex predator who now has a hand rubbing him roughly through his boxers.

“Don’t close your eyes, look at me” Hannibal hisses, his voice commanding, even though he is as out of breath as Will. Will’s eyes open and he keens when Hannibal’s hand slips his erection out, a thumb pressing at the leaking tip of his cock, spreading the moisture there around, lazily.

“Look how beautiful you are, all disheveled and wanton in my hands” Hannibal’s accent is thicker and he is rutting softly against Will’s hip as he speaks. Will watches fascinated as his cock’s head disappears and reappears in Hannibal’s hand as the man jerks him off, slowly. It’s too slow, not nearly enough for Will, right now. He can barely breathe with Hannibal’s hand still pressing against his throat. The fingers around his cock slide down, exploring between his legs, weighing his balls and Will can’t help but beg.

“Please” He murmurs, weak hands clawing at Hannibal’s neck to bring him closer for a kiss.

Suddenly, the hand at Will’s throat releases its hold and the heat of Hannibal is gone. Will doesn’t notice he’s closed his eyes again until he needs to open them to search for Hannibal, who’s now kneeling in front of him gazing up at him hungrily.

“Fuck, _fuck, fuck_ ” Will whines as Hannibal’s lips stretch into a delirious smile before wrapping around his cock. If Will were a lesser man, he’d think he’s manipulated Hannibal into proving he’s better than whomever that poor boy in University was who gave Will the best blowjob in his life, but really, Hannibal is the one in control, the one proving a point, marking his territory.

The heat of Hannibal’s mouth is blissful and painful all together on Will’s dick. Hannibal’s hands are like talons at Will’s hips, holding him in place as he presses his nose into Will’s pubic hair, swallowing him whole like he’s spent all his life doing just that. Hannibal smells Will there, a musky, heady scent, unique and overwhelming. He wants to taste every single inch of Will’s skin, that feverish out-of-control Will. Hannibal swallows around Will’s cock, marvelling in the undignified noises this seems to generate from Will’s throat.

“You… _you_ …” Will mutters, gazing at Hannibal, his hands wild, clasping at Hannibal’s hair, uncertain whether he wants to pull him closer for more or push him away because it’s too much, so overwhelming. Will is almost sobbing when Hannibal finally pulls back to breathe and licks at the vein under the thick length of Will Graham. Hannibal’s is slightly longer, he knows, but not quite as large in girth. There’s a pearlescent drop at the tip of Will’s cock which is now shiny with Hannibal’s spit and Hannibal licks at the slit, drinking it all up like it’s the headiest wine he’s ever tasted. He tongues at Will’s frenulum, swatting at Will’s hand when the man tries to pull him back by the hair so he can engulf his cock into the warm, wet heat of the mouth which is now sucking at the underside of his length.

  
“More… _more_ … please… _Hannibal, fuck_ ” Will whimpers, his eyes rolling back in his head when Hannibal finally relents and swallows him back down. Hannibal bobs his head up and down, his hands clawing at Will’s thighs, leaving deep reddish gouges behind which only seem to tease more whimpers out of Will’s parted lips.

Will is almost delirious, hitting his head agains the partition of the stall, causing patrons outside to complain loudly about how rude they are to be doing this and whatever other obscenities they can fit into their complaint. Hannibal doesn’t think Will has even noticed that men have been walking in and out of the men’s rooms while he’s been sucking him off.

Will is loud and responsive. That pleases Hannibal. Amuses him and makes his blood swirl purposely in his veins, his own erection rubbing painfully on the rough fabric of his jeans. He much prefers lighter wools for this reason, much softer on the skin. But if Will’s reaction to his outfit is anything to go by, Hannibal might just make do with t-shirts and jeans more often. Will’s is muttering a litany of obscenities and moans, his voice harsh from desire.

He can feel that Will is nearing orgasm by the sweat gathering at his temples and the trembling of his stomach muscles. Hannibal wraps his hand around the base of Will’s cock and sucks the tip for all he’s worth, tugging with his hand in time with the sucks and licks at the head, his other hand busy rolling the warm skin of Will’s sack in his hand. He slips one of his fingers behind Will’s balls and presses at his perineum. Will almost collapses on him when he finally comes, thick white ribbons coating Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal swallows, savouring the flavour, which is completely Will’s. Will crawls down to his knees, facing Hannibal, finding his mouth with his, kissing him, tasting himself on his lips. His pants are in disarray around his hips, his hair is a mess of curls where Hannibal’s fingers have carded through the carefully arranged curls. There are voices outside in the men’s room. They don’t have much time before someone actually brings security to check up on their activities.

“You mad, _mad_ , man” Will murmurs, his mouth against Hannibal’s throat. Hannibal’s erection is forgotten for now, his self control impressive. Hannibal has a slight smile on his lips, gathering Will in his arms, petting his hair softly as Will pants against his neck, his sweaty forehead pressed against Hannibal’s jaw.

Hannibal finally stands back up, pulling Will along with him, tucking a pliant Will back in his pants, buckling him back up. Will’s cheeks have a faint blush on them. His bandage has suffered during their activities and Hannibal presses a calming hand against Will’s chest as he places the bandage back into place carefully.

“We should go now” Hannibal murmurs against Will’s temple. Will follows him, boneless, out of the stall. Hannibal washes both their hands carefully in the sink and wet a towel which he puts on the nape of Will’s neck. Will gazes at him, a half smile on his lips.

“You’re completely out of your mind, I hope you know that” he says, as Hannibal grabs his hand and pulls him out the door of the men’s room. They cross path with two bouncers headed towards the men’s rooms, no doubt to pull apart the enthusiastic lovers who have been making a commotion in there. Hannibal tells them to check out the third stall before pushing Will into the crowd. Will wraps an arm around Hannibal’s neck and laughs as they let the crowd carry them around for a while before making their way to the front door and out on the busy street. By the time they make it back to their hotel, it is almost four in the morning. Will is leaning more heavily than before on Hannibal’s side and they both collapse gracelessly into Hannibal’s bed after Hannibal has removed their jeans. Will curls his body against Hannibal’s back, an arm snaked around his waist.

“Mad, mad, man” Will murmurs against his neck before falling into a deep, dreamless slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the tags a bit to reflect... stuff. Hope I don't disappoint ;) Un-betaed.

There was blood everywhere. That’s all Will remembers when he awakes suddenly, out of breath, terrified, his entire body racked up by violent shivers. He’s hard too, which makes him want to throw up. He claws out of the sheets and makes it in the hotel bathroom just in time. He empties his stomach noisily, feeling drained when finally nothing more comes up. He lifts his head and glances at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. Hannibal is standing politely in the doorway, staring at him.

“Sorry if I woke you” Will croaks, his throat raw from the bile, pulling himself up from his kneeling position by the toilet to get some water at the sink.

“Feeling better?” Hannibal asks, cocking his head to the side.

“Not really.” Will replies. He feels like a mess. A complete mess, confused and angry and he cannot see how he’ll get better.

“You killed a man.” Will finally says after brushing his teeth and splashing cool water on his face.

“Yes. And you watched.” Hannibal retorts.

Will frowns, glaring at Hannibal’s reflection. It feels obscene that Hannibal would sleep so well and feel not an ounce of guilt over gutting a man.

“I was too late to stop you anyways.” Will reasons.

“It excited you, sexually, to see me kill him.” Hannibal adds, probing. Will’s blood boils under his skin, sweat rolling down his back. It’s like there’s something inside him about to snap.

“Death has that effect on people.”

  
 “Funerals, certainly. There is something about the act of mourning that brings out the most primal need in people to reproduce. Most people seeing a man being gutted wouldn’t be in the mood for what we did right after.” Hannibal continues, a slight smile stretching his lips. Will feels like punching that smile right off his face.

“What are you trying to say?” Will hisses. He notices then for the first time that both he and Hannibal are wearing t-shirts and boxers. At some point, Hannibal undressed him. Will pulls the t-shirt off over his head. It’s soaked through, anyhow.

“That perhaps your guilt is misplaced, _William_. You do not feel guilty about watching me kill Benjamin Dawson. You feel guilty that the first thing you wanted to do after that was ram yourself down my throat.” The words are precise, clipped. They feel foreign in Hannibal’s mouth, as if crassness is so far below him but he still enjoys rolling in it like a pig in mud, if only to rattle Will.

“Fuck you.”

“Is that what you’d like?” Hannibal adds, stepping carefully inside the bathroom.

“Don’t touch me.” Will says, jerking his arm away from Hannibal’s prying hands.

“Will, there is nothing wrong with having fantasies and indulging in them.” Hannibal says, ever the fucking psychiatrist. Will’s fist connects with his jaw before Will has even consciously thought about doing it. The connecting noise is like a slab of meat hitting a granite counter. Hannibal doesn’t really even flinch. Just grabs Wills arms and twists them both behind his back, pushing Will against the partition of the shower. Will struggles against him, cursing and trying to bite, like a wild beast cornered.

“You reek. Of fear. Now you’ll take a shower before you come back to bed and take that time to reflect on why you’re not going to hit me again.” Hannibal’s voice is icy, terrifying. Will, however, is far beyond the realm of fear.

“Why not? You certainly deserve it.” Will buckles against Hannibal’s hold, only managing to get his wrist twisted almost to the point of breaking. Will’s mouth opens on a silent cry. Hannibal’s grip will leave bruises for sure.

“I will not be your punching bag for when you decide you cannot face the music. You’ve made your choices. You’ve stepped behind the veil.” Hannibal grunts against his ear when Will tries to knee him in the balls. The shower starts, suddenly, taking a few seconds to heat up. Steam floats around them as Will continues struggling against the apparently unmovable force that is Hannibal. It’s so warm, so un bearably warm in this room, near Hannibal, in his arms.

“I hate you.” Will murmurs, feeling the tension being released from his wrist. He slips it out and grabs a fistful of Hannibal’s hair, pulling to the point of pain. Hannibal hisses silently, glaring at Will, his hold still strong on Will’s upper body.

“No you don’t. And that’s what’s inconvenient to your righteous self, isn’t it?” Hannibal says, his voice suddenly soothing. Will doesn’t make the mistake of thinking that there is anything tender in the way Hannibal currently cradles him, pushing him into the shower stall. Will feels the water pelt down on his back and only has the sense to remove the boxers that are now soaked when he realizes that Hannibal isn’t holding him anymore, that he can move his arms freely. Will turns to adjust the temperature of the water to make it cooler, still warm enough to be comfortable, but cool enough to help him calm down. He can hear fabric rustling behind him and suddenly, there’s a hand at his hip. Will can’t move, he just stays there, water rolling down on his head and back, eyes closed as Hannibal’s warm body presses up against him.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you.” Hannibal hisses against his neck. There’s anger in there, but also a sort of quiet desperation. Will doesn’t know how much of it is fabricated for his benefit and how much of it is genuine. It is always hard to tell with Hannibal.

“I certainly don’t make you a better man” Will mutters, refusing to open his eyes to see Hannibal’s strong forearms wrapped around his waist, possessively. There’s sadness in Will’s voice. Hannibal is all hard edges and planes, his body a dangerous weapon. How he managed to remain so in shape even after spending three years confined to a mental ward, Will has no idea.

“Always, you cling to those notions of good and bad. Do you truly think I am evil?” Hannibal asks, his lips tasting the water at the nape of Will’s neck. A shiver courses down Will’s back and he presses himself more closely in Hannibal’s embrace.

“You’re Satan” Will murmurs, pressing his forehead on his crossed arms pressed against the tiles. It’s grounding and reassuring to feel the coolness of the porcelain against his fingers and forearms.

Hannibal chuckles.

“Was your father very religious, Will?”

“My father…” Will chuckles, a mirthless laugh. “My father was a drunk sailor who barely managed to raise me properly, Dr Lecter. His only religion was the sea.”

“And yet you are an unswerving pillar of righteousness. You know it is one of the things that made you so attractive to me.” Hannibal admits.

“Not so unswerving it seems.” Will retorts. Hannibal’s lips are now tracing patterns on his trapezius muscles, a hint of teeth reminding him who the predator is in this room where all that is holy is being washed down the drain.

 _You’ve found religion_.

Will remembers Bedelia’s words as if they were still ringing around him. He’s found perdition, he felt like telling her. She had such distaste for him when she said those words. Filled with terror as she was. Fitting terror too. He knows that it’s only a matter of time before Hannibal decides to make a house call on her. What he doesn’t know is if he’ll be a willing participant or simply tagging along for the show.

Or perhaps he’ll try to save the lying, manipulative bitch…

“Not quite unswerving, indeed.” Hannibal’s hands are suddenly covered in suds. Will has felt him grab the shower gel, but refuses to look, as those magnificent tools, long fingers and muscular palms rub gently at his chest, caressing every inch they can find.

Hannibal isn’t hard, against his ass. There’s nothing sexual brewing between them at the moment and Will’s waking erection has long abated. The moment is almost tender, and it’s absurd for Hannibal to be capable of tenderness when he can manage to rip Will apart so thoroughly. And yet, Will lets him wash him, his hands careful and gentle as they travel around his body. He can feel Hannibal kneeling behind him, holding him steady whilst he washes his legs and feet, and then, intimate touches between his thighs and cheeks as Hannibal’s fingers gently clean between his gluteus muscles. Fingers almost teasing against his opening. More soap then and Hannibal is standing again, washing his front, turning Will around so he can better reach. Hands on his nipples, massaging his pectoral muscles. Will obstinately keeps his eyes closed, feeling the water wash away all the tension in his body. The hands travel up to his arms, cleaning thoroughly underneath before they massage his biceps which are tense. Will just lets his arms hang loosely by his side, throat bared, mouth half opened on a sigh. It would be so easy to simply embrace being Hannibal’s play thing, his partner in life and in death. So easy. But it would cost Will so much. Would probably cost Will his sanity, whatever’s left of it. He must resist the pull, or at least negotiate a space in between where he can still feel like himself and give in to Hannibal at the same time.

Hannibal is silent as he washes Will. Deep in thought, perhaps. Will doesn’t even flinch when the hands travel down his abs, caressing the scar there almost lovingly. And then Hannibal wraps his fist around Will’s cock, which lays soft and fragile in his pubic hair. He washes it, softly, caring, before helping Will rinse off and starting on his hair, now a mess because of sweat and water, with the hotel shampoo. For this part, Hannibal gently guides Will to the ledge in the shower wall so the man can sit. Will trembles from the loss of the water pelting on his skin. He’s not cold, per say. Just so tired. He finally opens his eyes and gazes at Hannibal.

“You’re a singularly beautiful man” Will comments, almost a whisper as Hannibal rubs gently at his scalp.

  
 “Mischa used to call me ‘ _jos gana princas_ ’ when we were children.”

“I don’t speak Lithuanian.” Will slurs, bowing his head forward so Hannibal can better massage his tense neck.

“Her pretty prince. I always thought she was quite silly for saying that. I was not a traditionally beautiful child, nor am I a traditionally beautiful man. But to her, I was a pretty prince from her fairytale stories.” Hannibal responds. There is something to be said about how profoundly narcissistic yet profoundly modest the man can sound all at the same time. Will feels like an intruder, a voyeur, whenever Hannibal talks about his sister. Which he thankfully rarely does.

“I wish I could have met her.” Will murmurs.

“Why?”

“So I could better understand your relentlessness.” Will explains as Hannibal helps him up to rinse out the fragrant shampoo from his hair.

“She was a lot like you in many ways. The same fibre of righteousness. When Mischa decided something, there was very little anyone could do to change her mind.”

“That’s not righteousness, that’s stubbornness.”

  “Well then you share that trait with her too. That and her beauty, of course. She would have been a singular woman, certainly.”

Will chuckles softly at that.

“I think you are the only person who finds me beautiful, Hannibal.”

Hannibal sits him back down whilst he washes himself, efficiently, unwavering under Will’s scrutiny. There is something poetic in the way water slides down Hannibal’s muscled chest, leaving shiny beads in his pubic hair. It’s the first time Will has seen him completely naked and he’s not even discreet in his appraisal of the man. The man is beautiful. Lethal. Hannibal’s body is a finely sharpened knife, a well-slicked gun. A weapon.

Hannibal ignores Will’s self-deprecating words. He knows it is sincere and not fabricated to gather praises. Will is nothing if not modest. Hannibal wishes he’d see himself for what he really is, a fascinating creature that has ensnared his attentions so profoundly. It is a subject of endless fascination for Hannibal that Will would not see how deeply uncharacteristic of him it was when he turned himself in, to spite Will. Three years of his life he gave up for Will’s sake. So Will could pretend at a facsimile of the American life, wholesome and ordinary, like cheap white bread. When he thinks about it, Hannibal feels the inexorable need to rip Molly Graham and her son apart and force Will to watch as he devours them. He tames that desire for now. He’ll have plenty of time later, when the scrutiny surrounding them has dulled down to a mere murmur in the BAU’s sodium-lit corridors.

“Mischa loved the colour purple. A deep blueish shade of purple. Almost the same shade your eyes take when you are angry.” Hannibal says.

Perhaps tonight’s events have made him sentimental, though sentimentality is not something he indulges in much. Too many nights he’s awoken on a keening scream thinking about the bloody mess he found that fateful day in the field behind the family manor. That day, Hannibal Lecter cut out his own heart and ate it whole like his dead sister’s. Alana never did ask him that single night he awoke her with his nightmares. Perhaps she had that much sense in her not to pry. Hannibal would have lied, anyways. The darkest rooms in his mind palace serve to contain the horrors and pain of his childhood and he keeps those locked, the key kept safely where no one can find it.

“She was a pale child, porcelain skin and ashen-blond hair. She looked nothing like me really, except for her pout when she was angry. She had blue eyes, like yours. Hers were more greenish blue than yours.” A pause then as Hannibal considers his next words. “No, yours are alive with colour. I’ve never seen eyes quite like yours. They go from grey to purple to green and turquoise all on a whim.” Hannibal is now standing in front of Will, tipping his head back to gaze at his irises.

Will’s cheeks colour under the scrutiny. His lashes are dark from the water, creating a strange shadow on his cheeks.

“Does a day pass when you don’t think about her?” Will asks, voice gentle. Whatever anger he still held, coiled tight under his sternum, it has been washed down the drain for now. Now he just feels tired, empty.

“Not a day, no. She was snatched from me in the most unspeakable way.” Ironic to think that Hannibal snatches people away from their loved ones in equally unspeakable ways. But it’s just a game to him, life is just a grand old game where he always wins.

“And you ate her.” Will says, voice raw.

“I honoured her. Made her a part of me. Gave her strength where she lacked it. She’ll always be with me.”

“Did she taste good?” Will asks. Hannibal doesn’t reply. Just turns his back on Will.

“Why can’t you return to your home? It is, still your home, is it not?” Will asks, pulling himself up gingerly, his hands wrapped around one of Hannibal’s.

“Because I failed her there.” Hannibal responds, gazing at Will then. His eyes look dead, when he says that, as if the life has been long snuffed out of them. And perhaps that’s the truth. He’s a shell of a man inhabited by a monster. Just enough of the man has been left behind so that the average eye cannot see where the varnish peels back all the darkness inside.

Will can’t respond anything to that, so he just lets himself be led out of the shower and towelled off. He then allows Hannibal to put him in a pair of fresh boxers. When Hannibal tries to pull him back to their bed where the sheets have been changed, Will however pulls back as if burned.

“No. I can’t. Not tonight. I need space.” Will mutters before slipping out of the room and into the adjacent bedroom. Hannibal lets him, which surprises Will.

The clock on the bedside table reads 5:32am. The sun is about to rise, so Will pulls the curtains shut tight. He needs to sleep. Badly. So he curls under the covers and closes his eyes, thinking of blood, death, and a young girl with haunting blue eyes and an angry scowl on her face. In her mind, she looks nothing like Hannibal. Will pretends to blissfully ignore how much of Abigail he puts in Mischa’s face.

***

When Will awakens, it’s a bit past noon. The sun is doing its best to crawl into the room from between the closed curtains. There is a smell of fresh coffee in the hotel suite, that and bacon and eggs. Will’s stomach gurgles hungrily. Rubbing at his face, Will searches for his glasses on the nightstand, surprised not to find them there. Then he remembers he changed rooms last night and his glasses are probably where he left them, in the other bedroom.

When he pulls his legs out of the tangled sheets, he notices for the first time since last night the reddish gouges on his thighs, where Hannibal scratched him passionately when he was sucking him off. Around his wrists, two manacles of purple where Hannibal held him. Will blushes faintly and swallows back a wave of nausea before stepping out of bed and into the main room of their suite. Hannibal is seated there, lounging by the window, a cup of coffee by his hand on the side table as he sketches. He’s shirtless, wearing just a pair of comfortable-looking pans. Will doesn’t bother with saying hello, seeing as Hannibal ignores him when he enters the room and instead just gratefully slips into the seat across from where Hannibal clearly had his breakfast to eat his own. The food is delicious, still plenty warm. The coffee is a bliss as Will downs half his cup in a gulp, almost burning his tongue in the process.

“What did you do with his wallet and watch?” Will asks when he’s done eating. Hannibal hasn’t moved, except to take a polite sip out of his cup and to continue sketching. Will approached him to see what he’s drawing. On the page, Hannibal has sketched a Christ-like rendition of Will, hands upturned towards the sky, wrists covered in bruises. Will sighs at the drawing.

“A tad dramatic…” Will mutters before walking towards the french doors that open on a balcony. The day is superb, outside, the sky a vivid blue, the sun warm and comforting on Will’s skin.

He’s removed the bandage on his cheek, after the shower early that morning. The wound on his cheek needs some air to heal better. It’s a ragged cut, running two inches on the previously smooth expense of his cheek, right underneath his cheekbone. Once it is fully healed, if he grows his beard back, he’ll be able to hide some of it. He can feel where the razor of the barber missed a few spots covered by the bandage which he didn’t want to disturb. Will wonders if they have a razor on hand he could use to fix this.

“Do not bother yourself with details” Hannibal finally says.

“Can they trace it back to you?” Will wants to say us, but cannot really bring himself too. He feels as guilty of the murder as if he’d plunged the knife in Dawson’ gut himself.

“Of course not.” Hannibal says, stepping out on the balcony with Will. Will is still shirtless, letting the heat seep into his skin. Hannibal notices for the first time a few freckles have appeared on Will’s collarbones and shoulders, just a few of them. They’re charming and they make Will look even more fragile. Will turns his face and Hannibal sees the wound uncovered for the first time in days. It’s a nasty wound. Dolarhyde meant to disfigure Will. He would have managed had Hannibal not jumped on his back and choked him to remove him from Will.

“When we are better installed somewhere safe, I’ll take care of that.” Hannibal says, passing a light thumb on the scar. It gives Will’s face a more eerie, serious look.

“Take care of it how?” Will asks, pushing Hannibal’s hand away before turning back to face the marina which is full of life, sailors and fishermen returning from their morning work and rich folks headed on luxury day-cruises on their yachts.

“I was a skilled surgeon, once. I can remove some of the scar tissue so you will regain more flexibility in your cheek.” Hannibal explains.

“I don’t trust you with a knife near my face.” Will replies. “Anyhow, I’d rather stay like this. It’ll remind me always of how close I came to ending this.” Will says before stepping back inside.

 

He dresses quickly, finding the jeans from the previous night and a clean t-shirt. Hannibal observes him silently from the balcony. Will slips out of the hotel suite in search of a computer. Hannibal might not care about the aftermath of Dawson, but Will certainly does. There is a room just off the lobby where he finds what he needs, the morning’s newspapers which don’t seem to mention the murder, and computers. He pulls up the main page of the Miami News Times and then the Miami Herald. Nothing in the big titles for June 19th. He searches for a while before he finally finds an entry in the crime section.

***

Jack Crawford gets a call late that night. It’s June 20th, which means Hannibal has been on the loose for over three weeks now. Jack doesn’t know what to think of Will’s involvement in the whole debacle during transport and what happened at that house overlooking the Atlantic. He’d like to think that Will fought until the end, that he died bravely. There wasn’t enough genuine blood on the cliffs to assume either him or Hannibal had been killed, by blood loss or the fall off the cliff. But Jack cannot fathom Will not trying to get in contact with him if he managed, by some miracle, to survive the 150 feet fall.

Unless Hannibal has him.

Unless Hannibal killed him.

Clearly someone passed behind Hannibal and Will, adding plasma to the blood to make it appear as if there was much more than what they could live without.

“Jack Crawford.” He says in the phone, his eyes drawn to the crime scene photos of Dolarhyde’s body which he keeps coming back to, trying to decipher meaning from them.

“Mr.Crawford. Detective Jose Esparza, Miami PD.” Jack’s attention immediately snaps away from the photographs to the voice at the end of the line.

“Yes, Detective Esparza. What can I do for you tonight?”

“It’s more what I can do for you, sir. You sent a request through official channels so that all suspicious crime scenes been flagged down to you in relation with the escape of Hannibal Lecter?” Esparza says. He speaks a flawless English and Jack is certain his Spanish must be equally as flawless.

“Yes, yes, I did. We’ve received calls from all over the country about it. I’ve got trainees sorting it through…We’re not leaving any stones unturned. Did one of them transfer you to me?” Jack replied, ever the professional.

“Yes. I might have something that qualifies as unusual…” Esparza continues. “Can I send you the crime scene photos perhaps? They certainly speak for themselves…” Jack gives him his email address and waits patiently as his work computer buzzes to life. It’s past 9pm but he has refuses to leave the office any earlier ever since the grisly discovery on the cliffs. He detest that he has to have protective custody and cannot return home anyhow. He sleeps at a Hilton Hotel and he’s in no hurry to get there, not until Hannibal is dead or back in custody.

“We deal with murders. We’re used to them. But this, this is something different. We’d normally have attributed that particular murder to a mugging gone wrong, those happen here, especially in that area in South Beach. Lots of rich tourists that don’t know what to do with their cash except flaunt it… Except in this case, the man’s head was missing…” Esparza explains as Jack opens the email that just came through.

The pictures are ghastly. Jack remains unmoved by them, however. A man lays on his back, his guts spilling from a stomach wound. Nothing Jack hasn’t seen before. There is a lot of blood around him, arterial spray. He looks normal, mostly, up until you reach his neck where the head has been severed right under the chin. Jack enlarges the picture a bit to see better.

“Serrated blade?” Jack asks.

“We think so, for the head at least. For the gut… we don’t know yet. They’re not quite done with the autopsy. COD clearly is blood loss from the gutting, but they can’t know for sure. As far as I could tell on the scene, the head was removed post-mortem.”

“Have you found the head?”

“No. And that’s why we are a bit tense on our end. He eats them, doesn’t he?” There is a bizarre reverence mixed with morbid curiosity in Esparza’s voice.

“We don’t have any record of Hannibal Lecter ever keeping an entire head as souvenir…” Jack replies, ignoring the cruder question.

“So you don’t think it can be him?” Esparza retorts. “It could obviously be cartel related, in our area. But they don’t usually make such a mess near touristic areas. They wouldn’t have much of a market for their filthy cocaine if they scared off the rich folks that snort it…” Esparza explains. There is resentment in his voice, towards the rich more than towards the cartels.

“You haven’t managed to identify the man?”

“His wallet and watch were both missing, so no ID. We’ve printed him and are awaiting the results. If we’re lucky, the man has a criminal record and we’ll be able to investigate known associates.”

“Anything else you can tell me about him?”

“Well he’s not local, that’s for sure. No tan. He also had a stamp from one of the clubs on his wrist. Was hard to make it out beneath all the blood on his hands. I think he tried to push… push his guts back in…” Esparza’s voice falters on those last words. “Lecter has gutted men before, hasn’t he? That agent of yours…”

“Will Graham. Presumed dead, as of now.” Jack says. His voice is empty. He feels the weight of Will’s loss heavily. A personal failure of his. Which only spurs him more intensely in his hunt of Hannibal Lecter. Makes him perhaps a bit reckless.

“Dead?” Esparza asks. Not many details have been made public, even among police forces about what really happened on the cliffs, who was involved and why. Just enough to keep people on their toes.

“He was badly injured while taking down Francis Dolarhyde. We assume Hannibal Lecter killed him or he fell of the cliff trying to kill Lecter himself. We don’t know for sure and I can’t really give you more details than that as of now. It’s a matter of… confidentiality.” Jack stresses. Esparza hums appropriately.

“Anything out of the ordinary about the mugging, in your experience, Detective Esparza?”

“There was something vicious about it. Mugging aren’t peaceful, obviously. But they’re not that savage, usually, Mr. Crawford. It felt… personal? Intimate.” They continue exchanging information back and forth, Jack always careful about what he lets on.

Jack hangs up a few minutes later, on the promise that Esparza will contact him as soon as he gets news of the prints of John Doe. Meanwhile, Jack can do some good.

Resources are lacking since he lost Beverly. She was one of his best researchers and forensics specialists. After Miriam and Beverly, Jack swore to himself he wouldn’t bring in anyone else that he didn’t feel was ready to take on Hannibal Lecter. It took him finding himself standing on that cliff next to a pool of Will Graham’s blood to realize no one would ever be ready to take on Hannibal Lecter and the only way to go about this was to find people smart enough to know what they were getting into.

He’s already approached a trainee, a woman who’s in her last semester at the Academy. Her name is Clarice Starling. Double major in criminology and psychology from the University of Virginia, suma cum laude. Experience counselling in a mental health centre. No law enforcement background. But she’s got that keen way of looking at things, and ambition. She’s also well-trained in forensics which can’t hurt. And she asked good questions when he did a guest lecture on her campus back at the University of Virginia. Crawford didn’t tell her her remembers her from then, but he does.

Jack doesn’t know what it is about her and her frank gaze, her smart mouth, that reminds him of Will Graham. Will Graham was shy as can be, introverted. That’s not the case with Clarice Starling. But they have that same brusque honesty about them, letting it out just when they think it might benefit them.

She’s third in her class, right behind a guy that didn’t get much attention from Jack Crawford upon his reviewing the files, and trainee Ardelia Mapp. Mapp is promising, but she doesn’t have Clarice’s hunger. Plus, Clarice is also the best shooter of her promotion. Special Agent John Brigham, a Marine who teaches at the Academy and works for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has only praises for her. Jack can’t tell if it’s just because he admires her professionally or because the man clearly wants in her pants.

Starling is beautiful in a way that is slightly unnerving. She underplays it, all too aware that beautiful women are rarely taken seriously. But there’s no denying she’s a looker. Jack doesn’t let it cloud his judgement. She can be a deadly weapon if yielded carefully. And she is smart. He won’t send her on the field just yet, she’s not ready for that. But she helps him once in a while with research, keen as she is to please. She’s told him already that she wants to work in his department when she graduates.

The girl is not naive, though. Far from it. She knew immediately when he approached her that this was about Lecter.

Jack debates calling her this late at night. No doubt she’s studying or sleeping back in her dormitory. He stills gives her a ring.

“Starling” Jack says when she finally picks up.  “Who’s this?” Starling asks, stifling a yawn. Jack checks the time on his computer. It’s half past ten. He knows she likes to wake up early to run in the woods on the Quantico base.

  
“Crawford.” Jack states simply. He can feel immediately how alert she becomes.

“Hello Agent Crawford, sorry about that. I didn’t look at the caller ID. What can I do for you sir?”

“Any spare time tomorrow to help me with some crime scene photos?”

“Lecter’s?” Starling sounds more interested than she should. Jack can’t blame her.

“Could be. We’re not sure just yet. I just want a pair of fresh eyes on it. You up for it?”

“Of course sir. Would lunchtime work? I can’t get off from class before that, unless you have me…officially called.” Clarice explains. She has a calm, soothing voice, one somehow not devoid of authority.

“If you haven’t heard from me by lunchtime, just come by my office.”

“Will I be expected?” Jack doesn’t understand what she means at first, but of course, it makes sense. The security has been tightened at the Academy and in the BAU offices ever since Hannibal has escaped. Not that they think he’d be enough of an idiot to try and attack anyone here. He’s too slick for that. But they need to keep their guards up and so everyone on campus must be clearly identified and accounted for at all times.  

“Yes, yes, I’ll leave your name at the front desk so they let you through.”

“Alright sir. Thank you, sir.” Jack smiles a bit. She’s charming in a bizarre way with her overtly polite way to address him and that slight drawl in her accent, something she’s worked hard to get rid of but which is still there when she’s not careful.

“Catch some sleep, now Starling. You’ll need it.”

“Yes, sir. Goodnight.”

Jack hangs up, feeling a bit more confident about their chances at catching Hannibal Lecter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have read Red Dragon, The Silence of the Lambs and I'm almost done reading Hannibal. Most of my inspiration obviously comes from the canon, but I'll be playing with that pretty freely, as you might notice I'm already doing here :) 
> 
> I hope to make it all work.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, commenting, kudos, etc. It means the world to me to know there are people out there reading my own brand of craziness.


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